


you're a killer, and i'm your best friend

by Jaraaf



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: (eventually) - Freeform, (sort of. you'll see), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Betrayal, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Complicated Relationships, Conflict of Interests, Falling In Love, Flashbacks, Hands, Healing, Isolation, M/M, Memories, Mentions of Suicide, POV Third Person Limited, Parasites, Parent Death, Plot, Post-Manberg-Pogtopia War on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Reminiscing, Self-Doubt, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:54:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 39,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27804121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaraaf/pseuds/Jaraaf
Summary: George has been confronted with unsettling information about Dream by an old enemy. As his suspicions grow, paradoxically, so does his affection. When the time comes, who will George side with - humanity, or his best friend?A love story, in the way that soot webs in house fires come from spiders, and a horror story, in the way a comatose patient is dead.Smaller chapters (2000-4000 words) around once a week.-this fic centers around my dream redesign! he's not just an ordinary masked boy herethis is solely based off the characters - it isn't rpf (as non-rpf smp fic can get lmao)! this isnt heat waves baby buckle uptalk to me at minecraftsz on tumblr! i'm now :)playlistnow up! all front bottoms lol
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 49
Kudos: 123





	1. mounting suspicions

**Author's Note:**

> (as in: you could say that, but you'd be wrong)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It starts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah it is probably just my friends fucking around / they never cut me any slack / it’s just my friends fucking around (rhode island, the front bottoms)

“I’m fucking observant, okay, George? Something is up! Something is up!” Tommy shouted just centimeters from George’s nose. They were standing across each other from the grand table in his dumb sewer hideout. At least, they had been, until Tommy vaulted the table to scream in his face moments ago. The smell - both of his breath and from the river of sewage just meters from their feet - was really starting to get to George. He had no idea how Tommy could stand living on top of this awful thing, especially with a vent straight into his room.

“Tommy, you’re being paranoid! How do I even know I can trust you?” George said, pinching the bridge of his nose. He could feel his headache returning. Since it seemed like they were on okay terms, he made a mental note to ask Wilbur for-

Well, he obviously couldn’t ask an immaterial ghost to make him aspirin. He would just have to cope, which, with the way Tommy was prattling on, was looking harder and harder.

“Ohh, you’re just - you’re blinded by love, that’s what you are.” Tommy sounded smug. He leaned back, which was all George was asking for - get away from his ears, for god’s sake - and crossed his arms with a smile. At least, George thought he did. He couldn’t tell, because his eyes were closed in a desperate plea to escape the situation. Happy place, George. Mushroom houses. Hobbits. Then what Tommy said finally reached him.

“Love - shut up! Tommy, oh my god, this is serious! You just made an incredibly serious accusation, and now you’re-” Tommy cut him off.

“An accusation? An accusation? I haven’t had the chance to make a fucking accusation yet because you won’t let me finish! Have you ever thought about -” Tommy raised his hands in the air, gesticulating wildly.

“I won’t let you finish? Tommy, you just interrupted me while I was trying to talk!” George’s headache was getting even worse. His neck was flaring up, too.

“You did it again! You just did it again! I can’t believe you. Have you ever thought about thinking for yourself? Gathering information on your own and drawing your own conclusions? Of course not! It’s just been you and Dream up in your little ivory tower - that big stupid castle. I tried telling them there’d be no point in inviting you. I fucking knew you’d be like this. Get out! Go!” Tommy shouted, standing up on the table and pointing to the ladder out.

“Oh, come on, Tommy.” Privately, George was fine with being pushed out. Anything to escape this damn sewer. But he felt like he should at least protest a little. Dig his heels in and refuse to leave, you know? Get this annoying 16 year old to respect him. He wasn’t going anywhere until he got Tommy to finish what he was saying. “Don’t-”

Tommy drew his sword. “I’m not interested in talking anymore, George.”

It seems it was time to leave.

~

For once, George was cursing the convenience of the new wooden paths on his way back to his house. Ordinarily, finding his way through the rocky terrain would have kept his mind busy. Now, with leather boots tromping safely along the smooth oak boardwalk, he was free to do as much thinking as he pleased. Unfortunately, the first thing his mind turned to to occupy itself with was what Tommy had said. If George was put on the spot, he would admit that it was true that he hadn’t let Tommy say much. What he managed to get out before George shouted him down, however, was deeply troubling.

“He’s not human, George.”

Not human. George knew the prospect was completely ridiculous. Dream is as human as they come! Kicking a small rock to the side, he wondered what drove Tommy to meet with him. What would make him think telling Dream’s right hand man his suspicions would be a good idea? He himself had admitted that they’re basically joined at the hip - what George knew, Dream knew. And vice versa, of course. 

Right?

Before George could consider that train of thought, Sapnap called his name from behind. He slowed to let him catch up, and smiled as the heavy clanking of armor got louder. He could always count on Sapnap to get his mind off things. “George!”

“Sapnap! What’s up?” Sapnap smiled in response, brows furrowed with an expression as if he suspected something George was unaware of. 

“Hey, man. I just wanted to ask - what were you doing down in Tommy’s lair?”

“His lair?” George laughed. “Don’t call it that, it’s just a sewer. He…” George considered his next words carefully. For however much they disagreed, Tommy had placed trust in him. He didn’t think he should just betray that trust so quickly. “He was just trying to shake me down for the location of the discs.” He smiled. Sapnap made a face that implied he didn’t quite believe George’s lie - and that he had some other thoughts - but he let it slide.

“...Sometimes I think that if Dream just gave up those discs, things would be a lot easier now.” Sapnap became uncharacteristically thoughtful. His walking slowed. “It could have been a lot more peaceful around here if those two just swallowed their pride and made the trade. Or just left each other alone, you know?” He came to a full stop, lost in thought. “I don’t know what Dream is thinking sometimes. So much of this just seems… unnecessary.” George didn’t know what to say. He thought he was hiding his emotions well enough, but Sapnap seemed to notice his discomfort.

“Um, just forget about it. I think I’m just thinking too hard. Aren’t you king now? Let’s go do some king shit. Behead some peasants or whatever.” He smiled. George was thankful for the change in subject.

“... Yeah. Put up some signs that say FUCK and tell people they're going to fornicate under consent of king.”

“What? Dude, what are you even talking about?”

“No, I swear! I’m being historical…” Their conversation dropped towards safer ground, and stayed there until they parted ways at nightfall. But George couldn’t stop thinking about what Tommy had said.


	2. feeling good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George does some thinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is for the lake that me and my friends swim in / naked and dumb on a drunken night / but it should've felt good / but i can hear the jaws theme song on repeat / in the back of my mind (twin size mattress, the front bottoms)

_a few months prior_

TNT, TNT, TNT. All George could see was TNT. Bright stripes of red and white crisscrossed his vision even when he closed his eyes. He was already sick of filling and packing these little tubes, and he had barely made a dent in their mountain of supplies. He looked at his measly pile, and startled when he saw the practical tower sitting next to Dream’s workbench. “Dream! How are you making so much?”

“I have a lot of practice.” George could hear the smile in his voice underneath the mask. 

“I figured all your practice would be in dismantling these, not in putting them together.” George mused, tipping gunpowder into the tube.

“What’s even the point of dyeing these red?” Sapnap moaned from his place at the cauldron. “I look like I’ve been fisting a dead animal, man.” He pumped his fist in the air to demonstrate. His arms were red up to the elbow. “It’s all going to explode anyways.”

“Sapnap, oh my god! You’re disgusting.” George laughed in surprise, almost dropping what he had been working on. He caught it at the last moment. That was… scarily close. These were much bigger than the tiny paper bundles of gravel and gunpowder he played with as a kid. He tried not to think about the destructive power of what he was carelessly tossing back and forth in his hands, and resolved to be a little more careful.

“It’s true! I can get grosser, George, but I won’t.”

“Oh yeah? What’s holding you back?”

“He doesn’t want to damage your delicate sensibilities, George.” Dream chimes in. “Look, this is all for an important cause.”

“I feel like we could still blow up L’Manburg with brown TNT.” Sapnap muttered, but he got back to work prepping the poppies for dye. “You know, we could compete with them pretty easily with all the opium we could make. Wilbur’s got stimulants locked down. Let’s just throw this whole conquering warlords thing away and become rival drug dealers, huh? Or we could even be allies. Split the market.”

“Sapnap, I don’t want to hear your drug-dealing plans. We have a church on our land! We’re pure! We can’t sell drugs.” Dream laughed. He wiped a hand, annoyed, on his pants. “Sheesh, I regret taking my gloves off. My hands are going to be stained gray for days.”

“Your hands are gonna be stained? Your hands? Did you forget I’ve been tits deep in red dye…” Their banter continued back and forth all night until they ran out of ingredients and had to stop working. Sapnap’s complaints were eventually heard, and the last reams of paper were a dirty brown. But the paper wasn’t why George was thinking about that day.

When Dream pulled his gloves off - for the delicate work they were doing, he said - Sapnap and George had exchanged surprised looks. Dream had been wearing gloves since practically forever. George knew he hadn’t always worn them during the time they were friends, but it had been so long since he took them off that he basically forgot what his hands looked like. 

They were… nice. His fingers were long and slim, and they packed the canisters with meticulous care. But they were surprisingly pale. Almost white - like if he were to hold his hands up to the mask, they would blend in. Now, of course, they were smudged with a dark grey-black, and had become so soon after his gloves hit the floor. But George could have sworn that his fingertips had an almost green tint to them before he dipped his hands into the barrel of gunpowder. At that point he just chalked up their shocking lightness to having never seen sunlight, but now that he thought about it, they were almost ghostly with how pale they were. Like the pigment itself had been sucked from his skin. Maybe they just stood out against the dark browns of his jacket, perpetually zippered, but in light of what Tommy had said… George wasn’t so sure anymore.

He turned the corner and finally made it home.

There was a sign in his front yard. 

“You can come back when you’re ready to think.”

There was no signature, but George could imagine who it was from. 

As he took off his armor and got ready for bed, George thought about the day they finally put that TNT to use. Dream had threatened L’Manburg with lighting a single piece of dynamite. Privately, George thought it was a little stupidly dramatic - but again, he wasn’t reminiscing on the details of their plot. No, what caught his attention while he was sifting through his memories was what happened after.

a few months prior

George watched nervously as Wilbur turned to his cohort. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but he could hardly imagine they were discussing surrender. He stood a few feet behind Dream and had to resist the urge to bite his fingernails as he watched Wilbur approach. His response was predictable, but it still made George force out a sigh. 

“We would rather die than give in.” 

So they were doing this.

Truthfully, George was apprehensive. He had helped set up the network of TNT. Had he wired something wrong? Had he placed a bundle under their feet? He glanced at Dream and, while he couldn’t see his face, he could feel the confidence radiating off him. It would go well. He trusted Dream’s judgement, and he showed no sign of faltering. Dream motioned for them all to back up. George notched his arrow. Sapnap held the tinder to light the tar-covered tip. He stepped back and assumed the proper stance - unnecessary at such close range, but Dream had advised him to stay dignified as they burned L’Manburg to the ground. 

He let the arrow fly, hearing it hit home with a satisfying thunk. The soft sizzle of a lit fuse followed soon after. Distantly, he noticed Wilbur telling his people to back up too, a tinge of wary confidence in his voice, but he was too busy being ushered away from the break in the wall by Dream to register much else. Backtracking up the mountainside, they watched Wilbur and his company’s grins fade from confident to horrified as their single block of TNT exploded and set off tens more, turning the ground they stood on into dust. The van flew into the air and landed just centimeters from Fundy’s toes. Someone was whooping and hollering. He realized with giddy surprise that it was him - that it was all of them, celebrating their undeniable victory. They watched the L’Manburg rebels run terrified from their hiding places in the water to a tunnel under the ruins of the van, unaware of the fox - the other fox - in their midst. 

He still hadn’t known how to feel about Eret. Dream had promised George the kingdom, after all, but becoming King was in Eret’s contract. He supposed he was at least thankful that the rebels’ ranks would be destabilized after Eret did his work.

He trusted Dream would fulfill his promise eventually.

No time to think about that, though, when they were so busy celebrating. Sapnap almost fell tumbling down the hill jumping up and down. George could hardly stop smiling, and he and Dream turned to each other as one. The curtain below his mask fluttered wildly with the movement, and George caught a brief glimpse of his jaw. It felt weirdly taboo - what was he, a Victorian dandy scandalized by an ankle? - but he decided not to think about it. He was entitled to a creepy little jaw peek as the cherry on top of this victory fucking sundae. What he wouldn’t give to see Dream’s expression at that moment. Without hesitation, Dream grabbed George’s hands in his own and held them up between them. He squeezed them with delight, and they laughed together. The contact sent chills up and down George’s spine. He felt delirious with pure joy. “We did it, George! We did it, oh my god!” George had never heard Dream happier in that moment, and he realized with a grin that part of it was due to him.

George smiled at the memories, raking a hand through his hair. His face felt weirdly hot. He held a hand out to study - if he concentrated, he could almost feel the momentary pressure of Dream’s gloved hands on his. They had stayed on him for longer than one would expect, lingering there long enough for George to memorize the feeling of his gloves wrapped around his fingers.

The leather was weirdly cold, now that he thought about it. Strange, for having been wrapped around the hilt of a sword - you’d expect exertion to impart some modicum of warmth to his fingers, but they were as cold as the dead. George frowned. This wasn’t what he had meant to be thinking about - Dream’s hands, however strangely chilly they were, weren’t the point of calling up this memory to inspect. He tried to recall what first triggered this.

His jaw. Of course. Dream’s hood had fallen back slightly in the commotion, and when coupled with a swaying veil it led to a rather invasive peek at Dream’s… not his face, exactly, but a few square centimeters on the side of his head. George knew, of course, that Dream’s _jaw_ was in no way scandalous, but that didn’t stop him from feeling like he violated his privacy. Still, he valued that glimpse almost irrationally. It was the tiny section of jaw that met the ear and the neck - he could tell that Dream had his ears pierced, but that there was nothing in there. Shame, he thought. The piglins had traded him an almost ridiculous amount of jewelry he couldn’t even use, and although he wasn’t exactly a fashionable person, it still seemed wasteful for them to just sit in a drawer unworn.

No, no, Dream’s potential earrings aren’t the point either.

What matters, rather funnily, is Dream’s jaw. Among the pierced ears and chiseled jawline was what looked like a vein. It was thick enough to raise the skin, and it snaked up from his neck to somewhere unseen on his face. George hadn’t paid it much attention when he first saw it - he was, understandably, otherwise occupied - but now that he had ample time to think, it’s presence was… disquieting. Because along with the vein was an unsettling green pallor.

It was just the red light of the explosions making the shadow look green, he tried to tell himself. There had to be a logical explanation for it. The vein… it had been a very exciting day. You could explain that away with physical activity. Emotional excitement. There were all sorts of completely reasonable, logical explanations for everything George had seen of Dream.

But after hearing what Tommy said, George wasn’t so sure any more.

He pulled out a paper and quill and began to write.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heres that flashback tag in full force


	3. revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A peek at Tommy's side of things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'cause i was young i thought i didn't have to care about anything / now i'm older now and know that i should (funny you should ask, the front bottoms)

“I’m ready to think,” Tommy read aloud, addressing the assembled citizens of L’Manburg. “What do you think of that, eh, fellas? Looks like we got a Gogy on our side!” He was pacing atop the central counter in the newly restored van, narrowly avoiding knocking over rows of brewing stations with every step.

“Tommy, you’ve read that part three times now. Is there anything else in the letter, or are you just bragging?” Tubbo asked, exasperated. His shoulders were tensed; he looked like he was itching to snatch the stations off the table and rescue them from Tommy’s marauding boots. 

“I’m bragging, bitch! This was all me and my incredibly sexy powers of persuasion!” Tommy finally stopped moving. Everyone in the van relaxed noticeably. He squatted down and, using one of the stations as a crutch (earning a twitch from Tubbo), hopped off the island.

“Those are kind of expensive, Tommy. I think Tubbo would appreciate it if you didn’t manhandle the brewing stations like that.” Philza interjected.

“Yeah! As your president! Leave the brewing stations alone!” Tubbo mock-shouted, encouraged by Philza’s support. “Or you’re getting the blaze rods to replace them.”

“Fine, shut up, Tubbo, shut up Dadza, I’ll stop,” he grumbled. He quickly regained his vigor. “But look at this! We won! We have George on our side!” He thwapped the letter enthusiastically with the back of his hand and pinned it to the bulletin board, narrowly avoiding puncturing the original L’Manburg declaration of independence. Tommy noticed Fundy staring at Wilbur’s signature being covered up. Maybe someone should talk to him about his murdered dad. Whatever. Not Tommy’s problem. They had bigger problems than a sad orphan. Philza would probably cover it.

“I wouldn’t say we have him on our side yet.” The softly excited chatter in the room came to a stop as each head turned towards the corner, empty of everyone except for one person: Sapnap. They had all shied away from him without even realizing. He stepped closer to Tommy, commanding the room. “All he said was that he was going to hear us out.”

“Ready to think, actually, but whatever…” Tubbo’s voice trailed off as he realized everyone heard him. “Sorry, sorry. Same thing.”

“Look. Guys, we need to take this seriously. We aren’t out of the woods yet, and convincing George to basically murder his boyfriend is going to be a lot harder than getting him to agree to talk to us.” He turned to make eye contact with everyone, but they were all turned to each other, reacting to what he just said.

“Wait, his boyfriend? Really?” Philza’s voice was loudest in the sudden outcry.

“Okay, not really, but come on! You all see it,” he says, crossing his arms. “They’re the only ones that don’t know they’re dating yet. Look, that’s not the point. What I’m saying is that Dream and George are practically inseparable! It’s even worse with all that inauguration shit. George might be a little suspicious now, but it’s going to take direct fucking evidence to convince him that Dream isn’t the nice, regular human he thinks he is. We’ll have to get him to take the mask off and see for himself. Otherwise, he won’t do anything.” 

“Does anyone actually know what Dream looks like?” Tubbo wonders.

“Yeah! What if he’s, like, super hot under there? What if he brainwashes George because of how sexy he looks?” Tommy shouts. He stops for a second, and backpedals. “No, no, wait, I take it back, I take it back. Dream is probably super fucking ugly. Like a toad. Gogy will take one look at him and run screaming back to us. For a knife, to cut his ugly face off with.”

“Jesus, Tommy,” Philza laughs. “Slow down for a sec.”

“Really though, has anyone seen his face?” Tubbo cuts in, sounding worried. “How do we know what’s behind the mask will be enough to get George to side with us?” Everyone in the van falls silent at the thought. Sapnap is the first to speak up.

“It will. We can’t know for sure, but we’ll have to hope. Nobody wears a mask for no reason. There has to be something worth hiding under there.” He sounds troubled - again, like he knows something he isn’t saying.

“Why are you even helping us, Sapnap?” Fundy speaks up. He’s leaning against a counter, wrapped up in his coat. “What’s in it for you? We’re a bunch of L’Manburgian rebels. We can’t offer you power, and I can’t imagine it’s just because Dream isn’t human. There’s no way you hate nonhumans enough to risk destabilizing an entire country for it. Especially when I’d be on the other side.”

“I…” Sapnap sounds genuinely regretful. “I can’t tell you. I’m here because I have a hunch, and all the evidence is pointing towards it.”

“If all the evidence is pointing towards it, then why the hell can’t you tell us?” Fundy turns to face everyone else in the van. “I don’t trust this guy. Tommy, why did you even let him in?” Everyone in attendance rolls their eyes. This is an oft-repeated argument. 

“Because, Fundy-”

“Oh wait, that’s right,” Fundy interrupts mockingly. “He told you, but he won’t tell anyone else. How convenient. Might I remind you guys that Tommy has fucking admitted he only agreed to be vice president so he could get the discs back from Dream? He doesn’t have our best interests at heart!” Fundy thumps his chest for good measure. Niki has her face in her hands.

“Fundy, why does it matter if Tommy has his own interests? The only thing that matters is he wants Dream out too! Why should we care if he’s got ulterior motives?” Her voice is muffled through her palms, but a hint of desperation still leaks through. Fundy rolls his eyes.

“Whatever, Niki.” He turns from her to face Tommy again. “And another thing-” he points to Eret, “-why is he here? He’s a fucking traitor, Tommy! You were going to kill him! What happened?” Eret flinches back in surprise, but only at the suddenness of the motion. What Fundy’s saying is familiar to him. He pushes up his glasses and sighs, but says nothing. He couldn’t convince Fundy to like him even if he tried.

“Fundy, shut up!” Tommy broke out. He grabs Fundy’s arm. “They’re here because I want them to be, alright? I trust them! That’s the only thing that should matter to you! I was elected to this fucking position, and you voted for me, so I don’t want to hear you complaining about who I pick as allies. We have bigger fish to fry.” 

“Fish to fry?” Fundy threw Tommy’s hand off him and rears back his curled fist for a punch. “You motherfucker-” Phil steps in and grabs his hand before he can let it fly.

“Quit it. Fundy, I expected better. Tommy’s the immature one, not you, and you’re acting like a toddler right now. Both of you - get out. I’m adjourning this meeting. We’ll pick back up when everyone’s ready to think,” he says sternly. Fundy snarls, but leaves without another word.

“Clever, Phil,” Tommy mutters, but he allows himself to be ushered out. Fundy stares daggers at him from across the lawn. Tommy, not above pettiness, sticks his tongue out and slaps an L on his forehead. Fundy rolls his eyes and turns around. Tommy laughs, and jumps when he feels a hand on his shoulder.

“Jesus christ, Tubbo. Don’t sneak up on me like that. I’m doing my victory dance.” Tubbo’s face is drawn.

“We really need to talk, Tommy.” His voice is low. Tommy’s smile falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the title is SO DRAMATIC lolll. next chapter in 2 days or so hope you liked the new perspective


	4. the windmill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy does some catching up. And thinking. And, of course, remembering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there are certain things you ask of me / and there are certain things i lack / the beginning we were winning / but now we're just making up facts (be nice to me, the front bottoms)

They’re sitting on the pile of hay inside of Wilbur’s mill, of all places. Nobody comes by here, so Tommy supposed it would work. It still felt weird having a conversation about treason where your ghost brother lived, though. Being there made his teeth buzz.

“This place gives me the creeps, Tubbo. Can’t we go somewhere else?” He felt watched.

“Your ‘the creeps’ is exactly why we should be here!”

“Tubbo, you make no sense.” Tommy scoffed.

“Shut up, Tommy.” Tubbo rolled his eyes. Tommy grinned. He had missed this - just talking about nothing. Nothing was hard to come by recently. He was always so caught up plotting that he forgot what it was like to just _be_ , to use a hundred words to say nothing at all and still have fun doing it.

He knew that wasn't how this conversation was going to go, though. Tubbo hadn't pulled him to this dusty, creepy mill to live in the moment.

“I think you need to address what Fundy said.” Tubbo said after a pause. He was staring at the floor, carefully avoiding eye contact.

“What? Why?” Tommy leaned forwards, incredulous. "Tubbo, you're supposed to be on my side!"

“You can't always expect me to be with you on everything, Tommy. Besides - he’s kind of right. Why is Sapnap helping us? I trust you, but it’s kind of hard to do that when you won’t tell me anything.” Tubbo rubbed his hands up and down his arms defensively.

“You’re my right hand man, Tubbo. I tell you everything.” He furrowed his brows as Tubbo sprang up, whirling to face him.

“So then tell me this! Tell me this!” Tubbo pleaded. “I’m so sick of all the secrets!” He said, fisting a hand in his hair.

“I tell you everything, but - but why don’t I tell you some things?" Tommy made eye contact. "Come on, think! What have my reasons always been for holding things back from you?” His voice was plaintive. Tubbo was quiet, so he continued.

“Look, what would your reasons be for holding stuff back from me? Why wouldn’t you tell everyone your plans?” He waved a hand in the air, sketching out the general idea of 'secret plans'.

“... Traitors.” Tubbo said softly. Tommy nodded in response. “Do you really think-”

“I don’t even know." He shrugged. "Maybe not, I can’t be sure. But the things Sapnap told me are important enough - scary enough - that I can’t risk Dream finding them out.” Tommy rubbed the back of his neck, staring up at Tubbo. He had spent a lot of time thinking this over, and was confident in his reasoning, but there was still the nagging feeling - always - that he was doing something wrong.

“So if you’re worried about traitors, then why have you even told us that Sapnap is helping? Wouldn’t Dream finding that out be just as bad?” Tubbo crossed his arms, squinting.

“It would be so much worse if Dream found out what Sapnap is actually suspicious of than if he just thought Sapnap was a power-hungry traitor. He’s used to traitors. Sapnap wouldn't be a regular traitor. If Dream found out..." Tommy shifted his gaze down and looked straight ahead. He could see the ever-present castle through the slats in the mill’s window, looming over L'Manburg. It left the city in shadow. He wanted nothing more than to turn it into rubble - he knew Dream wanted to do the same to them.

“He would raze L’Manburg to the ground, and all of us with it.” He finished quietly. It was a terrifying thought. They sat together quietly, finding it hard to breathe under the weight of it. 

A thin voice rose from the pool of water at the foot of the hay bale they sat on, shattering the spell like ice.

“Did someone say L’Manburg?” A lock of floppy brown hair peeked out from the puddle. 

“Hey, Wilbur,” Tommy sighed. His voice bubbled up from under the surface.

“That’s where we are! Did you see the balloons I put up, in the market? I built that.” Wilbur floated up from the tunnel that led to his house, smiling hopefully. He had become more translucent as of late.

“Yeah. They’re nice.” Tubbo looked fiercely uncomfortable, caught off guard. Wilbur kept glancing at him nervously. They may have called an uneasy truce after Wilbur's death, but Tubbo still remembered what he did to L’Manburg. And what he had said to him - and to Tommy - before even then. They were all quiet for a few moments, stewing in uncomfortable silence. Wilbur spoke up again.

“Tommy… Tommy, would you like to come down and write something?” He was wringing his hands. Tommy thought he probably didn’t even realize he was doing it. He looked up at him, unsure of what to say.

“I won’t let anyone read it, if you write something. My barrel is very secure.” A lie, but a harmless one. Nobody wanted to read Wilbur’s books anyway, unless to humor him.

“Yeah, sure, Wilbur.” Tommy looked back at Tubbo. He glanced at him, and then at the door. _You don’t have to come,_ he tried to say. Tubbo seemed like he saw what he wanted to hear. He waved a nervous goodbye and left the mill hurriedly. Wilbur smiled wanly at Tommy without a second glance at Tubbo and dove into the water. Tommy grimaced. He hated going down here - Wilbur left this curious staticky smell in all the places he spent time in, and his home was no exception. It would rub off and stay in Tommy’s clothes until he washed them, but that hardly compared to the emotional baggage of spending time with your dead brother - who barely even remembers all the shit he did to you - he’d be leaving with. 

‘You’ll never be president,’ Wilbur had said once. Tommy guessed he was right.

He took a deep breath and dropped into the sewer. He wasn’t even sure if this counted as a sewer - it was only connected to Wilbur’s home, nowhere else. The water from the mill's wheel simply trickled past his door and out through the side of the hill. Wilbur led him down the tunnel, motioning like Tommy hadn’t been here a million times before. He pointed out the loose tile that Tommy had known to avoid for weeks and muttered, “Don’t step there.” Wilbur left him at the door and disappeared into his back room. Tommy followed him inside, and stood inside the cramped space he spent most of his time in. He watched Wilbur rifle around in his barrels for a paper and a quill.

It was cramped in here, even with two rooms, with a line of dusty brewing stations along the back wall. They hadn’t been used in a long time - possibly since they were made. Tommy guessed Wilbur held on to them for sentimental reasons. One of the few happy memories he let himself hang on to. Tommy had read _What I Remember_ when he first came down here, at Wilbur’s behest. He had expected himself to get mad at how much Wilbur had forgotten, how much he would never be able to get closure for, but the foggy memories he recorded in scratchy, trailing handwriting had only made him sad. It was a far cry from the strong hand he remembered from their old decrees. It was such a tiny detail, but to Tommy, it proved that Wilbur was really gone. The ghost he left behind… it was still him, but Wilbur - the Wilbur that Tommy knew, the one that led a revolution - was gone. Tommy was never getting him back. Despite all the awful shit he'd done, Tommy still missed him.

Wilbur approached him with writing utensils in hand. “Here you go, Tommy.” Tommy raised his eyebrows.

“I can write anything?” He said with a grin. Wilbur fixed him with a withering glare. Good to know there was still some contempt in him.

“Please don’t write How To Sex 3.” Wilbur’s fingers twitched, as if to scratch their way into Tommy’s head and see exactly what he was planning. Tommy smiled. Maybe... Maybe things could be okay. It was just a different Wilbur.

Wilbur watched this strange young man take the paper and quill from him and begin to write. People had told him they were brothers, but they looked nothing alike. Still, being with him made him feel happy. Like there was a warm breeze flowing through his chest. He couldn’t remember much about him, but he figured he didn't need to. He got the feeling he was remembering less as time went on. He was fine with that. All his memories were happy ones, so he must be only forgetting the bad things. Either way, he knew he liked being around Tommy, and right now, that’s all that mattered. He could hear him muttering under his breath as he wrote, hunched over on the ground. The soft scratching of the feather's nib on rough paper was soothing. He closed his eyes, and just listened.

Tommy sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor. The flickering light of the fire was hard to see by, but it masked the cracks on the walls. It almost felt cozy. The warm light sunk into the stacks of barrels on the walls, making the cave feel like a bear’s den. The persistent scent of static was replaced by the soft smell of pine smoke, wafting through the room and sinking into his skin. He looked over at Wilbur, who was floating silently in the air, eyes closed. Was he asleep? He didn't know ghosts could sleep.

He looked peaceful. He looked peaceful. Alive, no matter how silly that sounded. His face almost filled out, and the bags under his eyes lessened, if not disappeared. Like he was taking a break from carrying around the stress of forgetting all the time. Tommy could almost pretend he was back in the Pogtopia ravine, watching Wilbur taking a power nap, exhausted from his duties as leader of the revolution. Tall stone walls took the place of piles of books, going up so high Tommy could barely see the ceiling. A web of rickety bridges crossed back and forth between the walls, lit by dim oil lanterns suspended by what little string they could scavenge from their supplies. He almost missed the constant dripping of water from the ceiling, falling into the dented and soot-stained buckets that doubled as their cooking pots. The sound of water hitting water was almost musical. The broken bits of armor strung up like trophies would jangle like wind chimes in the warm air that would rush through the ravine every so often, and in those moments it was like Tommy was surrounded by music, like he took in melodies with every breath. He missed it. Missed the righteous feeling of revolution, the confidence of being the underdog. Missed not having this constant sinking feeling of dread, missed being blissfully unaware of what could dwell under a porcelain mask. He missed the joy everyone shared in those early days, the shining rays of hope that practically emanated from everyone’s faces. They were all so happy back then. 

Nobody was dead. Nobody had betrayed anybody - they were just fighting for independence. Together. Everything was so complicated now. Tommy was exhausted. Sometimes he envied Wilbur. Maybe it was scary to forget, but there were so many things Tommy wished he couldn’t remember. It seemed nice to just float around and get people to write books for you.

Tommy was yanked out of his thoughts by a knock at the door. Wilbur startled and almost instantly faded out of view.

“Tommy? Tubbo said you might be in here. Everyone’s cooled down - we’re ready to resume.” Phil’s voice snuck through the thick oak door. Tommy sighed.

“It’s just Phil, Wilbur, it’s okay. Here, take what I wrote.” Tommy handed Wilbur a few sheets of paper covered in his wild handwriting and walked to the door, hands in his pockets. He looked back before he left the threshold with Phil, but Wilbur wasn’t looking at him. He was too busy examining his writing and packing it away carefully with the other books he kept. He didn't see Wilbur at all for the rest of the day.

The rest of the meeting was uneventful. Fundy didn’t pick any more fights - he looked chastened, like Phil had pulled him aside and given him a much-deserved talking to. It made sense. Tommy heard from someone that Phil was acting as Fundy’s dad, since Eret had failed to show up to his adoption. Despite everything that fox bastard had said, Tommy was tiredly glad to hear that Fundy was finally going to have a family again. There was no connection between them anymore, not with Wilbur dead. Niki and Eret kept mostly to each other during the discussions. Sapnap stayed in the corner, quiet until the end when he could slip out unnoticed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *fixates on memories* you know the drill. next chapter in a few days. back to george's pov too i think


	5. splash splash lol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dream and George cross a river together, and nothing at all emotionally significant takes place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wanna confess it in a whisper / that's just loud enough to make out (santa monica, the front bottoms)

“George!” A familiar voice woke George from his slumber. “George, wake up! I have plans!” He groaned. His head was deep under the covers, but sunlight still managed to leak through. He contemplated just ignoring it.

And then his window broke.

“-Shit! Sorry!”

No choice but to get up now. He sat up slowly to survey the damage. A muddy brick - like it had been pulled from his garden outside, dammit, - sat in the middle of his room, surrounded by broken glass. He slipped on his boots after tipping them upside down to check for glass and walked gingerly to his window.

Dream stood outside, wearing that giant brown hoodie. His posture was sheepish, but as soon as he spotted George’s head peeking out between the few remaining pieces of his window, he straightened up. George’s eyes narrowed. “Dream! You broke my window, you - you prick!” He threw a couple shards of glass down at Dream for emphasis.

“Prick? You’re so British!” Dream laughed, sidestepping them easily.

“Apologize for my window!”

“Fine, fine. George, I am sorry I broke your window. I will fix it.” He put his feet together and mocked up an apologetic bow, hands behind his back. He looked back up. “Now are you ready to come out? We have stuff to do today!”

“What do we have to do today that means you have to throw a brick through my window?” George had to resist the urge to throw the brick back down at him. His aim was terrible, and with his luck he would end up hitting Dream right between the eyes.

“It was the only thing available! You weren’t responding! I didn’t expect it to break!” Dream counted down his reasons on his fingers. He looked back and forth, as if defending himself against an imaginary audience. There were so many ghosts around at this point, George figured it was possible.

“What do you think a window does when you hit it with a brick, Dream?” George asked incredulously. He noticed the large gap in his path at Dream’s feet, and sighed in dismay. It took him an unreasonable amount of time to lay all that down. “And you didn’t even have the decency to use your own brick?”

“I apologized, George! Come down here and forget about the window! I said I’ll fix it later!” Dream urged. He started pacing back and forth - right on top of George’s flowers. Damnit. At least he knew Dream would fix his window. He always kept promises, no matter how flippantly he made them. Still, George would have to do something about his poor flowers.

“I’ll be down in a minute - stop walking all over my garden!” Dream laughed at that, but thankfully stepped back onto the path.

“Sheesh, you get a house and immediately you’re all responsible.” He shouted up. George rolled his eyes, but forwent a rebuttal for closing the blinds. “I’ll fix the flowers too! Come down already!”

“I’ll see you soon! I have to shower!” He watched Dream’s face disappear from sight behind burgundy curtains.

“Aw, without me?” His voice was muffled, but he was definitely laughing.

“Oh my god, shut up.” He groaned. For some reason, he had thought that the next time he spoke to Dream would be super weird. Even though he knew that Dream couldn’t read minds, he still felt strange just talking to him normally with all these suspicions swirling around his head. He kind of felt bad. Should he tell him what Tommy said?

No, that was obviously a terrible idea. He could totally put aside his thoughts to hang out normally with his friend. Besides - this felt normal. Secure. Familiar. Relaxing. All sorts of positive adjectives. It would just be a cool, normal day hanging out with his best friend, Dream. They would probably go mining, or maybe set up another building. Something totally regular and predictable. And he would act totally normal, and not suspicious at all. He slipped a shirt over his head, tucked a knife in his belt, and stepped out the door. He stopped short.

“... Dream.”

“Yes, George.” Dream tipped his head.

“Why are you in full netherite.” George said, deadpan. He noticed Dream had his thumbs tucked into loops at his hips. Hick.

“Well, um, I was thinking we could go kill Tommy today?” Dream rocked back and forth on his heels. Was he nervous? George’s headache was back. Why on earth...

“Why are you killing Tommy, again?” He asked, massaging his forehead. This wasn’t at all what he had expected. There was no way George was up to attack _anyone_ right now, much less Tommy. Fighting Tommy might make his head explode. Not to mention that Tommy being dead would make meeting with him later incredibly inconvenient. Dream cocked his head to the side. George could almost see the mask frown. He walked a little closer, enough for George to notice the conspicuous absence of heat radiating off him.

“George, is something wrong? You’re usually hyped for stuff like this.” His tone was jovial, but he did sound legitimately concerned. George looked to the side. Should he tell him? Would that be weird? “You haven’t turned traitor on me, have you?” He laughed, but those words chilled George to the bone. Funnily enough, he hadn’t thought about it like that before. Traitor? Was he really considering betraying him? Is that what he was doing by agreeing to meet with Tommy again?

“It’s not that. I just don’t really want to do war stuff today.” He shrugged, acting nonchalant. His thoughts were racing at a million miles an hour. What was the best way to go about this?

“Ah… Okay. I just - no, nevermind.” Dream looked to the side and _actually rubbed the back of his neck_. Like he was nervous. That was curious.

“No, wait, what were you going to say?” George prodded lightly. What was he thinking?

“Well, I… It didn’t really have anything to do with a war. I just suggested it because I thought you liked doing things like this, and I wanted to do something that made you happy.” Dream toed the ground like a nervous schoolgirl. “Since you liked them before,” he added. “I guess I was wrong. Sorry, George.” He took off his helmet and held it under his arm, as if he were paying respects. It was almost cute.

Ridiculous. This was all ridiculous. George saw himself for a moment as if he were floating outside his body, observing the situation from a stranger’s perspective. It’s insane! The _founder of this country_ just suggested _assassination_ to the _king_ as a _bonding activity_. And despite knowing just how dumb all of this was, he still thought it was sweet. It sent blood rushing to his face, for Christ’s sake. He felt like he was back in year 7.

“No, no, wait, Dream. That’s... actually kind of sweet. I said that because I wanted to hang out with _you_ , not your politics. I only get excited to do that kind of stuff because,” he realized what he was about to say, “because it means I get to spend time with you.” Now it was his turn to look down like a little kid confessing to his crush. God, there was so much blood rushing to his head he was convinced he was about to faint. But it felt weirdly good to get it out. 

“Wait, really?” Dream let out a laugh in relief. “... Sheesh, this is silly.”

“Yeah,” George agreed with a smile. He grinned a silly grin. “Are we 14 or something?” It was ridiculous how much hearing Dream say he liked spending time together affected him. It’s not like they had confessed to _undying love_ , or anything - they just admitted they liked hanging out. Why was it so hard to say? And, for god’s sake, why did he feel so relieved after saying it? 

“Come on, let’s go do something,” Dream offered. “Not killing Tommy.” He added. George could hear the smile in his voice. He stood there for a moment. He felt dizzy, because this didn’t make sense. None of it did. He couldn’t even say why - it just felt _weird_. There were a million conflicting emotions inside him. He liked Dream, he really did, but he was also probably planning treason against him. His best friend. He had just been confronted with a metric ton of creepy information that really, _really_ made it seem like Dream was some kind of inhuman alien but - but if he was an alien, he was one that also got awkward when it was time to talk about emotions. But he was also one that thought murder was a fun thing to do while hanging out! Would it really be that bad if Dream wasn’t actually human? What was George supposed to do if he was? 

Dream stopped for a second a few meters down the path and looked back, just in time for George to remember how to walk and have to jog to catch up. He fell into step next to him as they walked in silence towards the bamboo forest at the edge of his property. The quiet was almost comfortable, like an overstuffed chair that could easily swallow him if he let his guard down for just a few moments. The ground got slicker as they approached the banks of the rocky creek separating his house from the rest of the world. He scraped the slippery mud off his boots on the rocks as he watched Dream take an unsteady step onto the rocks that served as a placeholder bridge until he could find a suitable log, preparing to make the trip himself. Dream’s boots shook on the rocks, like they were too big for him. “Uh, George, you might need to help me across here,” he called back. He sounded genuinely concerned for his own safety. George laughed to himself. It was kind of nice seeing Dream with his guard down like this. How was it so easy to slip back into this sort of comfortable familiarity? Dream wobbled dangerously, boots clanking on the rocks, and thrust a gloved hand out towards George in a desperate bid for stability. “George!” George reached out instinctively, and Dream latched on like a drowning sailor.

“Dream! You’re going to pull me in!” George said, leaning back to try and steady him.

“I won’t have to pull you in if you help me get across!” He cursed. George took a few quick steps onto the rocks, almost slipping, and took Dream’s other hand in his. They braced against each other until it seemed like the danger had passed and they could stand up straight. 

Dream tried to reposition his feet and almost slipped again. “Keep your knees bent,” George told him. The rushing creek kicked droplets of cold water up onto their clothes. His only thoughts were on keeping Dream and him up right - of the firm pressure of Dream’s hands on his, the dampening fabric George gripped on Dream’s shoulder. It was just loud enough in this little bubble that, to George, it seemed like they were the only people in the area. In the world, he would admit, if he was pushed to say it. It didn’t feel safe to even think - like he was more into whatever this was than Dream, even though neither of them had taken any steps to define it. Why was he thinking like this? He tried to take a step, to let go and escape whatever the river had created in him.

“George, I am going to fall over if you let me go.” Dream warned. He resettled his grip, squeezing George's hands.

So much for that.

“I usually just walk through with my boots on,” George admitted, just to say something. He was hyperaware of every point of contact between them. Dream groaned.

“You treat your gear terribly. Are you telling me you don’t know how to get across without soaking yourself?” He chided.

‘No,’ George was about to say, as a joke, and then Dream took a wrong step and lurched backwards, dumping them both in the river.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> speedrunning emotional interactions. hey did you know that crossing a river is symbolic of transformation and change because i only just realized that <3  
> 


	6. slipping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Water is wet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's something about drowning i can't shake / or someone dying anyway (santa monica, the front bottoms)

The water was… So cold. Way colder than he was expecting. He was, like Dream had predicted, completely soaked through. They both were. George realized he had actually gotten lucky, because Dream had gone completely underwater. Just as quickly he went under, he came back up again. He threw an arm over his face and stood up blindly, sputtering, knee deep in water.

“George, don’t - don’t look, I lost my mask - the, the clasp must have come undone or something -” Dream was hacking up a lung. The spill must have really caught him off guard with all the water he was coughing up. With his free hand he kept pulling the front of his jacket forwards and away from his body. Every tug sent drops of water flying, but it swung right back like it was suctioned to his chest. He eventually resorted to just holding it out, and his breathing slowed. Maybe he was claustrophobic. “Do you - do you see it anywhere?” He pointed down into the water.

“Yeah, oh my gosh, sorry, I’ll help you look.” George had a hand up to shield Dream from his vision and surveyed the bottom of the creek. He had to convince himself not to sneak a peek. It would be so easy, and he would never find out… But no, he couldn’t, that would violate Dream’s trust. Sure, he had seen under the mask a little bit before, but his whole face was much more serious than a tiny portion of his jaw.

The pale porcelain (porcelain? George wasn’t quite sure what it was actually made of, now that he thought about it) made Dream visible from miles away, especially at night. It glowed when he was caught in just a ray of starlight - he was practically blinding under a full moon. Now, however, its lightness made it almost invisible among the pale rocks of the riverbed. George scanned the ground, looking for a smile… Ah! There it was! He stuck his hands into the rushing water and pulled it up, shaking it off in the air. There was something stuck to it.

What was it? It almost looked like a piece of…

“Oh, George! You found it!” Dream snatched his mask out of George’s hands, sounding frantic. “Thank you so much!” He twirled around and re-affixed the mask to his face, tugging his hood just low enough to get the strap around and no further. He patted the edges of it nervously before pushing his hood back up to where it had been. George wondered absently if the hood had clips on the mask to keep it on his head. He hadn’t ever even seen Dream with his hood down - until now, at least, and it was barely down to the crown of his head. His hair seemed very thin.

Now that Dream’s mask was sorted out and there was no more danger of accidentally seeing _anything_ , George let himself look at him. The first thing he noticed was that he was dripping wet, and so were his clothes. Obviously. They clung to his body like bandages. 

But he was shockingly skinny.

His jacket hung off his shoulders like they were pinned to a clothesline. The hem of it swayed around his thighs. It was like he was just a pile of bones. How was he strong enough to wear a full set of armor all the time? He didn’t look like he would even be able to lift it up, much less run around with it on. 

“Can we get out of this river, now?” He was making an attempt to sound light, but his voice was shaky.

“I didn’t see anything, Dream. Don’t worry.” George could tell how nervous he was.

“... Thank you.” He sounded reassured, thankfully. They made their way clumsily out of the river together, helping each other up the banks. They gravitated towards a patch of sunlight. It was only after feeling the warm relief of the sun’s rays that George realized what them both being _fucking soaked_ meant - they would probably need a change in clothes.

“I have to go back and change,” George said with chagrin. “Do you want me to grab you something?” He thought for a second. “Well, you could come with me, but I think it would be faster if I just went there quick and came back.” 

“Yeah, that’d be great, actually.” Dream started wringing out what parts of his hoodie he could pull away from his body.. The dripping water splattered loudly on the leaves beneath their feet.

“Okay. Okay, I’ll be back in a couple minutes. Basic stuff? Shirt, pants, jacket?” George waited for Dream to give a quick nod, then jogged back to the bank of the river and waded through. His boots would never dry, would they. He kept up the pace on his way down the path. He felt a little bit like he was living in a novel, because he started thinking again. Too bad he hadn’t thought of another way to pass the time while going somewhere. Things would probably be a lot easier.

What stuck in his brain in this particular instance was what he saw when he picked up Dream’s mask. He hadn’t gotten the chance to inspect it fully before Dream grabbed it from him, so he might be wrong, but…

It really looked like a piece of flesh.

A small one - like it was scraped from somewhere with bone close to the surface - but it was definitely there. It had been in shadow, but there was an undeniably green tint to it. It was shriveled and pockmarked like it had been dead and dry for a long time. It… reminded George of something he thought he had managed to forget. The sound of dry leaves crunching under his feet faded from his awareness as he fell back into memory.

George thought about when Sapnap had recruited him and Dream to help get a dead pig out of an abandoned village’s well. It had been floating there for days, maybe months. It was bloated and rotting. It didn’t look like it could have ever possibly been alive - like it had been scraped from the brain of a madman in some other universe and deposited in their world. It stank horribly. The skin had burst in some places and there were holes in others. George saw something white and round in the chest cavity. Bone, maybe? It had a weird texture to it, though, and had strange protrusions sticking out of it. Getting the carcass out of the well had been a nightmare, but Sapnap was extremely intent on doing it. It turned out he had been planning to settle down there, and wanted a fresh source of water. George wasn’t sure if he’d ever want to drink anything that came from a mile around here after seeing that pig, even once it was gone, but it wasn’t like he was the one that was going to be living here.

The village was still empty now. When they first arrived, Dream had said he thought it was too far from the main center. Strange for him to say, George thought now, because he had set up an alternate base almost a kilometer farther a few weeks later. Sapnap protested at first - he was really set on living here, for whatever reason - but after seeing what was inside the houses, he had agreed to go somewhere else. 

When they were inspecting the houses, George began to get a better idea of why the place had been abandoned. Many of the walls were falling down, and not just from age - they had bricks ripped out, and scratches in the wood like they had beared the brunt of an assault. The furniture in most of the buildings had been pushed up against doors and windows, as if to stop someone from getting in. Judging by the carnage, it wasn’t very effective. Tables that must have once been beautiful - some had carvings on them that must have represented hours of work - were reduced to mere splinters. It couldn’t have been a pillager raid, though, because the destruction all came from the direction of a single house. They followed the path from the edge of the village. George remembered tracing the gouge marks in the stone foundations and being led back to a door, completely pristine - ground zero, he thought. Dream opted to look around the outside of the house, leaving George and Sapnap to investigate on their own. When they went inside, they found that the tables and chairs sat right where they should be. Right where they had been for years. The bed sheets, or what little was left of them, were rumpled like someone had just rolled out of bed. The table was still set with the remains of a meal for one. If it weren’t for the choking dust on every surface, George would feel like he and Sapnap had just missed a friend they had come to visit - like they had just run out to get milk, or something. They poked around silently. What was the story of this place?

George was looking around in the bed area when he found it. It chilled him to the bone. It was… He had no idea what it was, but it made him viscerally uncomfortable. When he swept a hand under the bed, his hand bumped into something. It. Still unsure of what it was, he managed to tease it within reach using his fingertips. It had a leathery texture to it, hard with a little bit of give. A ball? When he finally pulled it out and laid eyes on it his first reflex was to shout and fling it across the room. Sapnap rushed around the corner because he heard his scream.

The little glimpse he caught of it… It was small, about the size of an orange, and just as round. Stiff. Pale. 

Dead. 

He walked gingerly to where it had landed to get a better look.

It had tendrils coming out around the sides.

And a face.

Two thin eyes and a wide mouth like a slit, curved up in a permanent smile.

Definitely long dead, but still utterly horrifying. The tendrils at the top of it had a greenish hue to them. The skin on it was taught across the forehead and chin, but disgustingly wrinkled around the eyes and mouth, like it had died laughing. It was mummified, totally dry. Yellowed, but it had probably been bright white once. Of course it felt like leather - it basically was. 

Sapnap, who was a little more put-together than George, got his axe out and poked at it with the handle. It rolled around a few times before he made full contact, exposing tiny hooks and claws all over its veiny back. He managed to pin it, and pushed down.

It gave. It deformed like a foam ball - what the hell was this thing? What was inside? George reconsidered asking Sapnap to cut it open. He really, really didn’t want to find out. Sapnap wiped the butt of his axe on the bed before slinging it back in his belt, even though there was no chance of getting anything on it with how dry it was. Maybe he was a little more put-off than George first thought

At that moment, Dream opened the door and saw what they were looking at. When he laid eyes on the - the thing - he jumped, armor clamoring like a cacophony of birds. He looked even more freaked out than George and Sapnap were.

“We-we, oh my god, is that -” He swallowed, stopping himself. “Jesus, what is that?” He finished, barely calmer. George had never heard Dream sound so anxious. Sapnap, who never missed an opportunity to make fun of Dream, pulled out his sword and got over his revulsion enough to spear the thing and hold it up in Dream’s direction. George recoiled when he did so - it put up dust, yellow-green dust, when the leathery skin was pierced.

“What, Dream, scared of a baseball?” Dream hadn’t laughed.

“Sapnap, just - put it down, please.” He had backed up against the wall, like he was trying to run away from it. Sapnap’s smile fell slowly as he realized Dream was actually, truly scared. He put his sword down and toed the thing off the tip of it.

“... Sorry, man. Don’t know what I was thinking,” he muttered, chastened. He had an odd look on his face, like he realized something he hadn't thought of before. “Won’t do that shit again.” Dream nodded absently, relieved, but he didn’t quite seem like he was there - like his mind was somewhere else, reliving something George and Sapnap could only imagine. George looked at the thing again. Sapnap’s assault had left a huge gash across its forehead. He was disgusted by what he could see inside. The thing’s guts were just a mass of veins - it looked like someone had just taken a handful of worms and stuffed them inside. The ones in the path of his blade had been cut open. Some veins were hollow, some weren’t - just thick cords of flesh running through its body. It didn’t seem like there was anything else to it - no bones, no organs, nothing but those fucking veins. It made George feel like he was infested, like there was something inside his chest he had to dig out. 

“Can we _please_ get out of here?” Dream whispered. He was still staring at the thing. Sapnap walked around to the door, opening it without a word. George nodded and got up, casting one final glance back at it. They left it there, left the village quickly after that, and, in silent agreement, they never spoke of it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow plot!
> 
> hey i wanna just explain why this update took a little longer.  
> i took a self-imposed break from the SMP for moral reasons (not a huge fan of how big a fan dream is of pewdiepie) and was really questioning my engagement with it. luckily for all 12 bookmarkers ive decided to keep working on killer! i have very fun ideas for how this is all going to pan out. youll love it.  
> so yeah ty for reading ty for patience and i hope you have just as much fun reading this as ive been having writing it!


	7. tridents?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George gives Dream some clothes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sour but i think i like it / fruit from the profane communion / who knew i would even try it (camouflage, the front bottoms)

There was always a reason to pull George into memories like this. This time it was a color: green. The piece of flesh on Dream’s mask - he was certain now that’s what it was - had the same sickly green hue to it as the tendrils on the top of that horrible thing.

The color had to have been a coincidence. Surely. But even if it was, what was a piece of _rotting flesh_ doing stuck to Dream’s mask? Where could it have come from, if not from his… his face?

George realized he had stopped walking. How long had he been just standing there? He had to get back to Dream. He didn’t want him to think something was off - he didn’t want him to worry. Or to get suspicious. He hurried back to his house, slipped on a dry shirt and pants, and grabbed an extra set of clothes and a jacket. The glob of meat spun around incessantly in his mind. He was halfway back to the river when he was struck by a brisk wind and snapped out of relentlessly picturing rotting flesh. He realized that they were outside. More specifically that, _because_ they were outside, there wasn’t actually anywhere for Dream to change... Was he just going to change right there in front of him? George stopped in his tracks. Again. What… Why was this affecting him? He would just turn around. Or go somewhere else. Dream wasn’t going to change _in front of him_. Surely not. 

George had a momentary sense of clarity.

This was so stupid. This was unbelievably dumb. Here he was just thinking about how - how Dream’s face was _rotting_ and how it was _coincidentally_ the same color as part of some nightmare baseball they had found in some busted-up village - and now all he could focus on was the thought that Dream might have to change in front of him? 

In his defense, it was a very distracting thought. He shook it out of his head and set off back to Dream in a jog, making sure to follow the path. He had wasted enough time getting lost in thought. He couldn’t afford to get lost for real.

He finally made his way back to the river and waded right through, grimacing. These boots would never dry. Dream was lying down where he had left him, stretched out in the sun. He propped himself up on his elbows, hearing George approach.

“You took a while,” he remarked amicably. “Something happen?”

“I couldn’t find anything that would fit you,” George responded absently, hoisting the clothes up under his arm. It wasn’t exactly a lie - George didn’t have many hoodies, and after realizing how thin Dream was, it was tough finding a shirt that he wouldn’t be swimming in. He obviously couldn’t tell him that he had just stopped moving halfway to his house because he was drowning in memories. He held the bundle out to Dream, looking intently at his mask. Like - if he just stared hard enough he would be able to see through it and find what hid underneath.

“Funny,” Dream said. “Could you…” He motioned with his hand for George to turn around. He realized he’d been staring. His face heated up. Again.

“Oh - yeah, sorry,” he laughed. He spun around and walked down to the banks of the river to give his friend some privacy, wishing he’d had some self awareness the whole way there. The water burbled and gurgled noisily, but it wasn’t loud enough to drown out the soft sounds of Dream changing a few meters behind him. George cringed. He felt like a creep. He could hear the clinking of hardware as it fell to the ground, and the heavy noises of wet fabric slapping against itself. He tried to focus on the noises around him so he wouldn’t get caught on the fact that _Dream was undressing behind him_. In addition to the rushing water was also the quiet sound of bird song. A chickadee? The wind whistled through the bamboo, like the forest was singing and _behind him George just heard Dream’s mask unclick jesus christ he couldn’t do this_. He shoved his head into his hands. Dream’s breathing was unusually loud but - but maybe that was just his own, swirling around inside his head. His skull felt like it was stuffed with hot air. 

_I should turn around,_ he thought abruptly. Wait, what? Where had that come from? That was the last thing he wanted to do right now - why did he have that urge? He splayed his hands out on his face and pushed down, trying to use the pressure to center himself. He stared at the water intensely through the gaps in his fingers, trying to concentrate on the rushing water and direct every possible thought away from what was happening behind him. He was focusing so hard on focusing he barely heard when Dream started shouting at him.

“George! Hello? George, you can come back now!” Dream called.

“Are you decent?” George shouted back, keeping his head in his hands. He didn’t want to take any chances.

“No, I’m still naked. Hurry up!” The sarcasm was palpable. George rolled his eyes and got up, getting over his cautiousness.

As he turned around he was confronted with another very inconvenient truth. He had been so focused on the fact that Dream was changing so close to him that he neglected to consider what he was changing into. 

Dream was wearing George’s clothes.

“This hoodie is actually super comfortable,” Dream said, adjusting it on his body. “Can I keep it?” He asked. Jokingly, George was sure, but he couldn’t help his response.

“Sure.” Why did he say that? He loved that hoodie.

“What? Wait, really? Are you sure?” Dream was surprised. His hand stopped mid-tug.

“Yeah, I don’t wear it very often anyways.” Total lie. But he could scrape up another one somewhere.

“Oh my god, George, thank you so much!” Dream fingered the fabric of the sleeve. “You don’t know how much this means.” He thrust his hands in the pockets with a surprising amount of gusto, practically snuggling into it. The joy leaking off him almost made losing George’s favorite hoodie worth it. It was infectious, actually - seeing Dream so happy made the feeling sink into George’s chest. “This is great. Seriously, thank you.”

“Dream, it’s okay! You don’t need to thank me so much.” George brushed off the praise, but it stuck to him like burrs. To put it simply, it felt good that Dream was so happy - that he was happy because of him. George shoved his hands into his pockets. He wasn’t sure what to do with them. If he had rings, he would be twisting them. 

“Okay. Well, thank you. Seriously. It really does mean a lot.” Dream fished his sword out from his pile of wet clothes. “Is it chill if I just leave my stuff here?” He gestured down at everything.

“Yeah that’s fine. Ha, and you won’t even have to worry about Tommy taking it.” George said, thinking of their meeting later.

“What? Why?” Dream asked. He sounded just suspicious enough to get George feeling nervous again.

“Uh-” George stuttered. He didn’t think that through. “Uh, just because he hates me.” Great save. He grimaced inwardly.

“Oh. Haha, yeah. I should hide the discs here too, then.” Dream laughed. He draped his clothes over a tree branch and placed his armor at the base of the tree. It looked like a shrine. George laughed along uneasily. Dream had to have noticed that slip up, but he just let it go. Why? “So what do you want to do?” Dream turned from where he was shoveling stuff into his pack. George had an out. He scrambled around in his mind for something to do.

“I’ve been wanting a trident recently?”

“Oh, perfect! I have just the thing. Come on - you have _no_ idea how long it took.” Dream led George down the path, a bounce in his step, leaving George still confused at how easily he escaped his slip-up. Walking with Dream made him at once uneasy and comfortable. It was like snuggling up to a grizzly bear. Not because he might snap, or because he had to tread lightly. No, it’s because how would you even get there in the first place? Why did something so dangerous let you so close, and why was it ignoring all the jostling you do while tossing and turning? George would be the first to admit he hadn’t exactly been acting normal recently - he was never a good liar. He couldn’t help how antsy he got. What else would he say, if he stayed alone with Dream? Would he let slip his plans with Tommy? He needed a failsafe - he couldn’t count on the bear leaving him be forever.

“... I think Sapnap wanted one too.” He spoke up. Dream slowed and turned.

“Okay. Let’s go get him, then.” Something in his voice sounded wary. “Unless there’s something you want to do on the way?” He offered. George felt like they were negotiating something. Dream had to know something was wrong. Fleeing into Sapnap’s arms would be a short-term solution. He would have to deal with it eventually.

“No.” George said. “Let’s just go get Sapnap.” It was a rejection, of sorts. Dream just nodded, pushing his hands back in his pockets. He looked dejected. They walked in uneasy silence to Sapnap’s house. 

Sapnap was, as always, down for anything. When he heard they would be getting tridents, he whooped. His enthusiasm was contagious - both George and Dream cheered up a little bit after that, and managed to slide back into familiar conversation over the trek Dream took them all on through the desert. The sun beating down on their backs was brutal. George hoped their end destination would be on the other side of the desert, but to his dismay, Dream told them they were close with sand still stretching to the horizon on all sides of them. He insisted they walk up and over the final dune instead of around it for a dramatic reveal.

Slipping and sliding on the sand, George had to wonder if the reveal was really worth it.

And then they reached the peak of the hill, and George saw a massive structure suspended in the air above the river running in the cleft between the dunes.

“Whoa,” he couldn’t help himself saying. It was huge, and insanely high up. He craned his neck to look up at it. “Dream, what is this?”

“It’s a trident farm!” He sounded incredibly proud. “Well, technically a drowned farm. Look, do you have buckets? It still needs a little bit of work, but it’s almost done.” 

“No, do you?” George said. He didn’t have much beyond the sword and knife at his waist. Dream pulled a bucket out of his backpack and tossed it over.

“Here, take mine. Just drop it down when you get up there.” Dream offered, just as Sapnap pried two nested in each other off of his belt.

“Wait, I have an extra-” Sapnap said, holding it out to George.

“Oh, cool, thanks,” Dream interrupted, grabbing it before George could take it and hand his bucket back to him. Sapnap exchanged a surprised glance with George.

“... Yeah. No problem.” He sounded bemused, but said nothing else.

The “little bit of work” ended up being another full layer on the farm. Dream also had them fix the water - the drowned weren’t falling down like they were meant to, and Dream blamed Sapnap for fucking it up. He was being kind of a dick - he dented Sapnap’s bucket while he was shoveling water out of the farm, and made a joke that basically amounted to calling Sapnap a shit blacksmith. George still laughed, but he felt kind of bad about it.

After fruitlessly looking for an errant water source, George suggested climbing on top of the farm and blocking off the source from there to see if the water fell down - to see if Sapnap had even done what Dream thought he did. “It won’t work, but sure,” said Dream. “Why not. Tell me if it falls when I finish.” George and Sapnap watched Dream scale the side of the farm with ease.

“So,” Sapnap started, neck craned upwards, watching Dream ascend. “You guys were acting kind of weird around each other this morning.” George groaned inwardly. He managed to escape Dream’s prying, but he had forgotten all about Sapnap.

“We just had a little disagreement on our way over.” George bit his tongue. He couldn’t exactly say I had one of the nicest moments of my life, and then I saw a piece of rotting flesh on his mask and realized he might not be human.

“Are you sure?” Sapnap pried gently.

“Yeah.” George’s mouth was drawn in a tight line. It would be too complicated to explain, and why should he tell Sapnap, anyway? Sapnap seemed to get the message. He was quiet for a moment.

“... Do you remember Clay?” He said, changing the subject.

“He was your friend that disappeared, right?” George tried. Was he remembering correctly?

“Yeah, that’s him.” Sapnap sat down on the dirt platform under the water, watching Dream stop up the water sources on top. The little bit of light that managed to filter through the meters of water lit his face with an unsettling, shifting glow. It was like they were trapped in a dream. “We were best friends. Like, we went way back. Little kid shit.” He picked up a rock, thumbing at it like a worrystone. “Remember that village I wanted to live in?”

“... Yeah.” George guessed he wasn’t the only one that event stuck with.

“That was his village. That house we went to?” Sapnap fell silent, bouncing the rock in his hand like he was fighting with what to say next. “That was his house.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOOO stream-based content??? im not gonna incorporate the tommy exile btw its too complicated :augh: next ch in a week ish. i feel a little silly saying 12 bookmarkers on that last note when i only have 11 now i swear there were 12 last week i prommy...


	8. reminiscing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sapnap tells a story from his childhood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just try to appreciate / what you got while you got it / so if it ever goes away / you can say you enjoyed it while it lasted (everything i own, the front bottoms)
> 
> roll over the ! for a trigger warning - its like this b/c of possible spoilers ^-^  
> tws !

George turned to Sapnap in shock. “What? I - _what _?” Sapnap hunched in on himself, gripping the stone tightly, but continued talking.__

__“Look. Um... when I was little, we were pretty nomadic. We moved around a lot, right?” George nodded. He remembered this from the few other times Sapnap had spoken about his childhood. He could see him easing slowly back into storytelling, similar to the unsteady way someone gets back on a bike after years of disuse. It reminded him of when it was just them and Dream, sitting every night around a fire and trading stories and memories. “We always came back to that village - Clay’s village - every summer,” Sapnap continued. “At first it was just so my parents could get some supplies, but their main trader left that area a few years in. Honestly, I think after that it was just so I could have a friend.” He chuckled._ _

__“Aw, sweet.” George said, fulfilling his role as a listener. Where was he going with this? Sapnap looked over at him with a small smile. When George didn’t say anything else, he kept talking, turning his gaze outward. His shoulders crept up towards his ears as he continued, though, and the smile left his voice._ _

__“It had just turned summer when everything started. I was 14, I think. We were packing up one night on our way to the village when we heard a horse coming. It was stampeding down the path, full speed, like Hell was on its tail. And Clay was on its back. God, I remember that night so vividly - it was a white horse, Spirit, he told us after, and the firelight made it look like it was burning, like it had crawled out of an inferno. It was dripping with sweat. Clay was all kinds of fucked up, too - covered in cuts and scratches and blood, huge black eye, and his shirt was torn to shreds like an animal had gone after it. He was totally hysterical, kept repeating shit about ‘It’s in me, it’s in me.’” Sapnap glanced at George, who sat in stunned silence. He hadn’t expected this from what seemed like just another story about his childhood. He continued, unfolding to lean back against the wall, looking up. The roof was about a quarter closed off, making the wobbling light they sat under that much dimmer. “My dad had to haul him off Spirit and force him to eat something just to get him to quit babbling. It took almost an hour to get him calmed down, and he kept scratching at his chest the entire time. Mom made him sit on his hands, I remember. They didn’t let him talk until he could go 15 seconds without hyperventilating. I remember _that_ really well - my dad would toss a rock up and catch it to count the seconds.” He threw the pebble up in the air almost absentmindedly, letting it land in his hand with a soft noise._ _

__“What did he say?” George asked, holding his breath, almost scared to break the spell Sapnap had placed them both under. The sounds of Dream building echoed through the water until they sounded less like the laying down of materials and more like the drum strikes of God. The distant hits of his hammer were just out of sync with the noise of Sapnap’s stone hitting his palm, creating a discordant rhythm that made George feel off balance. He reached a hand out along the floor, hitting soft earth. He gripped it tightly to ground himself, feeling the loam compress under his fingers._ _

__“He told us that some… _thing_ had attacked the village. That everyone was dead - _everyone_ , his parents, his siblings, his friends - and everything was destroyed. Even the animals had been massacred, he said. Pets, farm animals, you name it. That’s why he called the horse Spirit - to remember everyone by. Everything. He just found it on the plains, I guess. Got the hell out of there after everything had ended - he wouldn’t tell us how he stayed safe, how he escaped. Why he was the only one. We never got much more out of him about it after that. He never told us what exactly it was that did it - it was like he was trying not to remember.” Sapnap’s face was drawn tightly._ _

__“Jesus,” George breathed. He had his knees drawn up to his chest, hugging them tightly. “And then?”_ _

__“And then we took him in,” Sapnap said. He shrugged, trying to loosen himself up. “He was never the same,” he laughed cynically, “obviously. Still funny and happy and shit, sometimes, but he had crazy night terrors. And days where he would just be a total dick, or completely shut off. My parents wouldn’t let him around sharp stuff, ‘cept he somehow managed to get a knife like two weeks into staying with us. He never did anything, though - honestly, I think he felt safer with it.” He tapped the knife he always kept strapped to his waist absentmindedly. “Whenever he got like that, he’d apologize a bunch the next day. I never held it against him. I get it, you know? He was fucked up.” He rolled the stone around in his palm. It took him a second before he began again. “But it just never got better. He got more closed off, though, towards the…” He trailed off. “Towards the end. Around when I met you. When we met you.”_ _

__“Wait, I think I remember him,” George said. He sat up a little straighter, trying to recall. “Was he that guy that was always hanging around you? Sorta slouchy and sad?” Sapnap laughed, some of the tension in his body managing to ooze out._ _

__“Yeah, probably. Tall, kinda pale, dark blonde hair?” He waggled a hand a few inches above his head._ _

__“Yeah, that’s who I’m thinking of! I remember talking to him some. He was cool. I thought he was a cousin, or something - that was Clay?” George tapped his fingers against his shins. Sapnap smiled._ _

__“Not cousins, nah. But he really was like family. Mom and Dad started treating him like a son pretty quick. He was like a brother.” He rubbed his arms, as if remembering someone’s embrace._ _

__“He didn’t stick around for very long, though…” George stopped. “‘Towards the end,’ you said. What… What happened?”_ _

__“Well - you remember he just sort of disappeared, right?” Sapnap looked over at him, trying to gauge his reaction. “He was there all the time, hanging out, and then one day he just… stopped coming.” His voice seemed to lose momentum, as if more had happened than just Clay disappearing._ _

__“Yeah,” George replied. A memory slotted into place. “You got really messed up for a little while then.” He said, frowning._ _

__“Yeah.” Sapnap curled back into himself. “Sorry I never said anything, by the way. I was being kind of an asshole.”_ _

__“It’s okay,” George replied automatically. “I get it.”_ _

__“Do you?” Sapnap whispered. George turned again to look at him in surprise. He hadn’t meant anything by it, but Sapnap seemed to hear something in it that he couldn’t. “He really just… disappeared.” His voice stayed low, like he was trying not to wake something up. “Even before he left he was gone, to be honest. He’d gotten really bad right at that point - we were sleeping separate by then, but I could still hear him screaming through the walls of our tents. It was like he was arguing with himself, night after night. He was in a daze most of the time, stumbling around like he forgot how to walk. And he’d gotten crazy thin. The worst parts were when he was lucid - _god_ , it seemed like he was two people sometimes. Most of the time in his clear moments he’d be just like his old self, but - but he would just look at me with the worst look on his face, like he was crying but the tears wouldn’t come. He didn’t talk much, but when he did, he just apologized. Just said sorry over and over, for now and for the past, and - and for the future. For what he was going to do. Last thing he ever said to me - when he was like that, at least - was, ‘Please forgive me for what I’ll do. Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me,’ just over and fucking over. I couldn’t stand it - I just left, and when I came back he was completely out of it again. God, though, other times…” Sapnap’s voice faded, like he was choking back tears - swallowing down the lump in your throat that comes just before crying._ _

__“Other times?” George prompted softly, after giving him a moment. He breathed in sharply, tamping down the frog in his throat._ _

__“Sorry, sorry.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Other times he was just… awful. It didn’t happen as often. He would just look at me then, too, but it was worse - he stared at me like he _knew_ something I didn’t. And the shit he said to me… man, I’m not going to repeat it, but I was glad that kind of lucid didn’t pop up too often. Leave it at that.” Sapnap took a deep breath, sighing heavily through his teeth. “But it really seemed like he was doing better the days before. Bouncier. Talked about you. He liked you a lot, actually.”_ _

__“I remember,” George said. “It didn’t seem like he talked to anyone other than you and me. Even though I’d only know you two for a few weeks.” Sapnap nodded._ _

__“And then, a few nights later, he just… left. I went to bed one night and when I woke up, he was gone. His bed hadn’t even been slept in. Didn’t take anything but a cloak and his knife. At least, we couldn’t find anything else missing.” He rubbed his face in his hands. “Mom thought he went out there to… well, we’d been running low on supplies. Dangerously - barely enough food, with nowhere nearby to stock up. And Clay was always the self sacrificing type,” he laughed bitterly. “So she and Dad went out to look. They were out the next day - gone before I even woke up.” He stopped suddenly, like he was afraid to go on, like he was teetering over the edge of a cliff. Just one more step and it would be all over._ _

__“And?” George prompted quietly._ _

__“And they never came back.” Sapnap shrugged, trying to act nonchalant, but his voice was brittle with tears._ _

__“Oh.” George couldn’t think of anything else to say. “Oh, Sapnap, oh my god, I’m so sorry.”_ _

__“It’s… well, it’s not _fine_ , but. I’m over it.” His teeth were gritted._ _

__“Are you sure?” Said George, repeating what Sapnap had asked him. “You… you never told anyone.”_ _

__“No, I - seriously, it’s fine. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.” He squeezed his arms tightly, staring into the sun. It shone straight through the sliver of space between the water reservoir and the walls of the platform. It lit up his face, a golden stripe cutting across his eyes, making them glow a golden brown. But he didn’t seem to register it. Despite the warm glare of the sun, his eyes were cold and distant. “I went looking for them. Stupid kid - I thought maybe they had gotten lost or something. Didn’t take anything but an apple and my crappy little paring knife. Thought I could find ‘em in a day, be back for supper.” He turned the rock over in his fingers. “I figured it out when I saw the buzzards. Followed them through the sky and down into the wallows._ _

__“And there’s where I found their campsite. And them. Right at the banks of the river, on the edge of a stand of trees. I threw up then and there. Emptied my guts of that stupid little apple.” His voice lowered to a whisper. He sounded like a scared little kid, but his voice turned fiery as he kept speaking. “They were… they were mauled. But it wasn’t an animal that did it.” He shook his head fiercely. “ _Animals_ don’t cut neat little x’s in preys’ chests. _Animals_ don’t pull fucking guts out and just _leave_ them there. _Animals_ don’t leave _knives_ behind.”_ _

__“Oh my god, Sapnap.” George moved a hand over his mouth. What the hell? Sapnap paid him no heed - he kept speaking, like he’d been running down a hill and couldn’t stop himself._ _

__“Whoever did that shit to my parents was fucking _sick_. I slept there that night. _Stupid_ fucking little kid - whoever did that could have come back and killed me, but I was too fucked up to leave them. I thought I could protect their bodies from scavengers, but whatever came would probably have just eaten me too._ _

__“I think I knew that, though.” He sighed, tumbling down into a somber walk. “Dying didn’t seem too terrible at that point - my parents and my best friend, everyone I had in the world, were all dead. Probably by the same person - you know that knife? That was Clay’s. Had that roll on the blade he refused to ever buff out.” Sapnap rubbed the knife on his belt, his fingernail catching on a chip on the edge. “I figured whoever killed my parents had killed Clay before, and took his knife off his body to do it with. I fell asleep holding it, actually. Still covered in my parents’ blood - isn’t that fucked up?” He laughed without mirth. “When I woke up, I was surprised. Like, that I was still alive. No cuts in my chest. Guts intact.” He made a slashing motion across his chest, then turned to look at George with a sheepish look on his face. “Sorry, am I being too morbid?” George grimaced._ _

__“I think you’re allowed to joke about it?” He tried. He really had no idea what to say._ _

__“Well, I fell asleep. Holding my dead friend’s knife covered in my parents’ blood like a teddy bear next to their mutilated corpses.” George laughed nervously._ _

__“Jeez, dude, you’re allowed to be morbid, but…” Sapnap chuckled._ _

__“Sorry, sorry. So, um.” He took a deep breath. “I fell asleep, and when I woke up… Dream was there.” George reacted in shock._ _

__“Oh, shit, really?” He couldn’t stop himself from interjecting. “I thought you met him when I did.”_ _

__“No, yeah. Sorry I never told you - it would’ve kind of required the whole backstory.” George nodded, motioning for him to continue. “He had the mask on, of course. He had a fire going, breakfast sizzling away in a pan. Grits. Some real nasty camp-type shit, with a ton of weird mix-ins. Had these freaky little white berries I was supposed to swallow whole. But that was the best breakfast I tasted in years.” He sighed, deep and heavy. “He buried my parents while I was still asleep. He told me he found me just before midnight - followed the buzzards, just like I did.” Sapnap chuckled again, recalling something else. “You know, a little after, he said he almost killed me that night. He saw the knife in my hands and thought that I might have done it, but then he realized I was too small to do much of anything.”_ _

__“You were a skinny kid,” George remarked. “God, you’re gonna laugh about Dream saying he almost killed you?” He shook his head in disbelief._ _

__“Hey, I was a growing boy! And yeah, why not? It’s funny. Best friend almost murdered you - that’s one hell of a conversation starter.”_ _

__“Or ender,” George said. “So that was how you actually met Dream? But he didn’t show up for me for months after that. Am I remembering right?”_ _

__“No, you got it. He was a traveler, like me. He said he was just passing through the area. I asked him to stick around, he said he might, he left, and then a couple months later he just showed up here. I tried asking him what he had seen out there, but he wouldn’t tell me. Said he couldn’t, like he couldn’t even remember._ _

__“He had me help make the headstones that morning. Chiseled the epitaphs into a pair of boulders he rolled over from the banks and put ‘em over their graves. Ugh. You know, I’m thankful he buried them, but because of that, I never got a chance for a proper funeral.” Sapnap pushed his face into his hands. “God, forget a fucking funeral, I didn’t even get to say _goodbye_ \- not to mom, not to dad, not to Clay - none of them even left a _note_ when they went.” His voice broke. “I just kept waking up to my people being gone. Before I left, someone else in the group told me they’d wanted to let me _sleep in_. Isn’t that just… God. It was just the fucking worst.”_ _

__“Sapnap…” George said._ _

__“That’s why I’m always up before sunrise, you know? Haha.” He didn’t laugh - just said the words, like he was just going through the motions of reassuring George. “Dream was my fucking hero for those few short hours. I cried into his fucking shoulder, man.” He wiped his eyes again. “And then he left. Took me back to just a little ways from camp, then turned around and disappeared into the brush. Nothing with him but a cloak - not even a bag. The group my parents and I had been with - they left, too. We were only together for a few months, anyway. No big loss. They believed in self sufficiency, so they must have figured I’d make it fine. Packed up around me at midnight and were gone before I woke up. Least they left my tent behind.”_ _

__“Jesus,” George breathed. “That was why you stayed with us?”_ _

__“Yep,” Sapnap said. “Honestly? I didn’t tell you why because you were the only normal thing around for me. Spending time with you was an escape. So. Thanks for that. You just being around really helped me out.”_ _

__“Yeah, of course.” George said concernedly. He leaned further forwards into his arms._ _

__“Look, I… I had a reason to tell you all this. Sorry to just like… Unpack on you like that, I promise it wasn’t the point.”_ _

__“You can talk to me about anything, Sapnap. There doesn’t need to be a specific reason for it - just _talk_ to me,” George stressed. “Don’t bottle stuff up like that - it’s not healthy.”_ _

__“I… yeah, okay. Okay. Thank you. But really, I’m going somewhere with this. I… okay, remember how I said he was better in those last few days before he left?” George nodded. Sapnap took a deep breath. “I don’t think that was him.”_ _

__“...What?”_ _

__“Like, Clay wasn’t the one acting better.”_ _

__“Sapnap, what are you saying?”_ _

__“I’m saying it _wasn’t Clay_. Whatever got up and was talking about you, whatever left in the middle of the night - whatever it was, it wasn’t Clay.” George was stunned. “Look, I was paying attention to the shit he said when he was lucid. Clay just kept getting worse - more scared, more sorry, more hysterical. And the other one was just getting clearer. More present. It went from just whispering to straight up shouting at me in the span of about a week. Does it make sense that Clay would suddenly recover? Right before he disappeared, and right before my parents were killed with his knife?”_ _

__“Wait - you think Clay killed your parents?”_ _

__“No - no, I don’t. I think whatever killed them killed him, too. I think whatever that - that second version of him was? It fucking took him over. Killed him, basically, left in his body, and used it to kill my parents. And mutilate their fucking bodies. I mean, those buzzards were ravenous - they would have swarmed if there was another body around, but they didn’t.” Sapnap was staring into the distance again, brows furrowed. They were completely in shadow - a cloud had passed over the sun, leaving even the slit in the wall dark. His eyes looked like pools of darkness - his cheeks seemed to sink in, making him look like a skull._ _

__“You…” George started._ _

__“I know it sounds crazy, George. I just… I’ve always trusted my gut, and it is fucking _screaming_ that not all was what it seemed.” He looked back at George._ _

__“I feel like there’s more you’re going to say.” He was testing the waters. He dipped a toe in. “Something about Dream.” Was Sapnap saying..?_ _

__“... There is.” Sapnap stared at him quietly, like he was weighing whether or not to continue in his mind. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could a _clang _like a gunshot rang out from the metal behind their heads. George jumped halfway out of his skin as a familiar voice swung into the room.___ _

____“Hey, what were you guys talking about?”_ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for the pity bookmarks. many many words in this one. i would use "poggers" and possibly "epic" to describe my feelings on it. merry christmas and also happy early kwanzaa to those who celebrate! if youre in school hope youre enjoying break. yadda yadda. see you next year :)


	9. long haul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George's day gets even longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i like the in-betweens / i like the time it takes to get somewhere (cough it out, front bottoms)

“Jesus christ, Dream,” George said, trying to keep his voice measured. His voice wavered too much for his liking. “You scared me.” His heart was racing a million miles an hour - just how much had he overheard? Dream whirled around, turning his back on George with his hands up in an affected shrug. He was the very picture of nonchalance.

“You guys forgot to say if the water fell! I sat up there for ages, come on. I didn’t hear anything,” he put his hands on his hips, “so I just decided to come down and look for myself. What were you guys so busy doing?” His voice was jovial, but it was clear he was trying to pry information out of them. George could feel the panic setting in. What should he say? What _could_ he say to get him off their backs?

“We were just gossiping,” Sapnap spoke up suddenly, rocking forward on his haunches to squint up at Dream. “All-l-l sorts of juicy details. All about you.” He added, smirking slightly. Rescue. George sighed in relief. He wouldn’t have been able to get out of this on his own. He prayed Dream would just let this one slide, like he had everything else today. He stared up at the blank white mask, waiting for a reaction.

“Ha-ha. No, really. What were you guys talking about?” Dream crossed his arms and leaned in. Shit. No such luck. George scrambled around in his mind for something - anything - to say.

“We-“ he started, but before he could get any further Sapnap interrupted with an impish grin. Thank god. He hadn’t had anything in mind - he had just hoped to come up with something, anything, as he spoke.

“Why do you care so much?” Sapnap teased. “Hoping if George told me he had a _crush_ on you?” Sapnap wiggled his fingers at Dream in delight for emphasis. George frowned. He rethought thanking Sapnap for saving him. Dream crossed his arms, hunching his shoulders. Astonishingly, his first words came out as a squeak.

“ _Wh-_ What? I - no!” Somehow, it seemed to work - Dream actually sounded flustered. “No, I was just curious… Jeez. Come on,” he scoffed. Sapnap's ploy totally worked! His fingers were twitching nervously on his sleeves. “Whatever. George, you were right, the water fell. Can you guys help me take the roof off, now?” He said quickly, throwing his hands down and shoving them in his pockets a moment later like he had no idea what to do with them. He didn’t wait for a reply before clambering back off the platform and up the walls.

“... How did that work?” George asked once he was sure Dream was out of earshot. Sapnap burst out laughing.

“Dude, I’m telling you. He’s _enamored_.” He emphasized his words with a choppy motion. George turned to him with bemusement.

“How did you _do_ that>?”

“Hey, I have a lot of practice in pretending to be jovial.” Sapnap smiled weirdly - half smirk, half grimace.

“Geez,” George laughed uneasily. How often had he had to do that while they were hanging out? How many times was his good mood just keeping up appearances? “... I’m sorry I never noticed you weren’t doing well.” Sapnap shied away from his gaze, uncomfortable with the mood he had created.

“... No, really, it’s fine. I didn’t want you to know.” He stood up, kicking at the ground.

“Still,” George repeated firmly. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have had to deal with that alone.” Sapnap was trying to look anywhere except George’s face.

“Okay, okay. Can you just hug me or something already so we can get this over with? I promise I’m fine.” He reached a hand down, head turned to the side, offering to help George up. He raised his eyebrows, but let himself be pulled up. He used the momentum he gained in standing to crash into a clumsy hug, trapping their clasped hands awkwardly between them. Sapnap accepted it with an "Oof! George-"

“You’ll tell me if anything else happens like this, right?” George said next to his ear, now that he had him captive. He could feel Sapnap’s hand trying to extricate itself from his grip, which admittedly wasn’t terribly strong.

“Yes, George,” Sapnap said sarcastically, wiggling his arm out and wrapping it around him to complete the hug. His hand hit George’s back with an affectionate thud. “I’ll make sure to let you know the next time my parents get murdered.”

“God, okay! I’m just trying to be considerate,” George laughed - or more coughed, with air forced out slightly from the blow. “I’m here for you. I just want you to know that.” Sapnap squeezed him tightly, earning another wheeze, then held him out at arms’ length. He gripped his shoulders with familial affection.

“Okay, okay, George. Seriously, thank you. That really means a lot. Now,” he motioned upwards with a jerk of his chin, “we gotta get going.” George nodded with a grin.

They climbed up the side of the structure and helped Dream remove the flooring. George was instantly soaked up to the thighs. What even was the point of ever getting changed? At least they were in the desert. He could almost see the surface of the water steaming around them. He kept an eye on the position of the sun, wishing he had had the foresight to slip a watch in his pocket before he left. All he had to gauge when he was supposed to meet Tommy now was just “around sunset” - and he would have to leave well before then, since Dream had trekked them ages away from civilization to get here. Even with Nether travel, it would probably take an hour just to get back to the borders of L’Manburg. He busied himself in the downtime between his turns by planning his route back. He could walk all the way back to the portal at the edge of the desert, but that would take forever and be insanely hot besides. He got up from his seat against the wall and walked to the edge of the platform, scanning the sand below them. He heard Dream whistling behind him - the simple four-note melody he called his "trance music".

"Du-du-du-du!" Sapnap imitated good-naturedly.

"Shut up!" Dream laughed. George could hear him grunt as he swung his sword up into the water with a splash. He sighed. "Damn. Sapnap, you're up."

In the distance, under the sun, George could see an open lava pool. It threw up little chunks of magma and distorted the area around it, which shimmered with hot air and half-melted sand. What if he built a portal and went home entirely through the Nether? He’d been down there enough that he could find his way around.

“Ugh! Stupid fucking-" Sapnap cursed from behind him. "George, your turn!” He called, pulling his head out from the water.

“Got it!” He shouted back, catching the sword Sapnap tossed him with ease and jumping up on the dirt mound to wait for the next drowned to descend.

By some insane stroke of luck, he managed to get a trident only an hour or two in of farming the drowned. He was instantly relieved when the trident stayed solid instead of reverting to mush, dropping on the ground next to him. It wasn’t just because he was happy to have gotten the trident, though - he was just thankful not to have to deal with those things anymore. Farming mobs like this always made him feel a little uncomfortable. He always wondered where these creatures came from - he knew they spawned spontaneously, the way old philosophers thought mice came to be, but why did they look so human? He usually tried to avoid looking in their eyes, but every so often, one would catch him by surprise and he would come face to face with their milky white gaze. That happened twice, and each time Dream was quick to lob his knife through the water and knock it off course long enough for George to recover and slash forward with his borrowed sword. Yeah, he was happy to be done. Plus, it meant he could beg off sitting around and waiting for Dream and Sapnap to get their tridents whenever he wanted - it was a ready-made excuse for whenever he had to leave and go meet Tommy.

Watching Dream and Sapnap roll the liquefying bodies over the side of the platform, he thought about manatees. Sailors saw their shapeless forms in the depths and, by the way they moved, imagined them to be half-fish, half-man. If only they had trudged a little further west, to where they found themselves now. What would they say? There were much stranger things than mermaids here. He watched their slow descent to the ground. They fell for so long it seemed like they were sinking through the air like it was water. The drowned disintegrated as they dropped, and were nothing but wet sludge by the time they hit the ground. There was a small pile of it growing under the structure. George wondered if that would do any environmental damage. Whatever. There wasn't much living around here _to_ damage.

Tracking the slow journey of an ant across the railing, he realized just how long the shadows had gotten. Neither Dream nor Sapnap had gotten a trident yet, much to their frustration, and were now floating around in a free-for-all. George feigned a yawn, and shouted up from his place on the platform that he was going to leave. They both looked down from within the water with disappointment. Sapnap dove down, exposing a fresh drowned behind him to Dream’s line of sight. He went after it while Sapnap bade George goodbye, then swam down to join them. George told them his plan to try going home through a new portal.

“Travel safe, alright?” Dream said, almost concerned. His hand lifted like he wanted to place it on George's shoulder reassuringly.

“I’ll be fine, Dream,” George laughed, brushing off his worry. “I’ve gone through the Nether a million times.”

-

George was lost. In the middle of the fucking Nether. Of course. Just his luck. At least time went the same rate down here as up above - he would be unimaginably late if a minute in the Nether was eight in the overworld. He clawed his way up the spongy netherrack to try and find a landmark, narrowly avoiding jostling a pigman. Sapnap always teased him for how jumpy he got around the things - it wasn’t his fault he wasn’t sure what exactly would set them off, okay? He usually gave them a wide berth, but sometimes it was unavoidable. He muttered a quick _sorry_ under his breath, and dug his fingers deeper into the grooves of the rock under his hands. He could feel it deform under his fingertips, and shuddered. The texture made him think of wasp nests. He had been dared once to grab a paper wasp hive off a window sill for 5 dollars. The sting he got wasn’t worth it - he could barely write for a month. He shifted his footing, trying to find a more stable place to stand, but he stepped on a loose chunk and it popped off, sending him scrambling for another foothold. Hugging the spire like his life depended on it, he watched the piece fall. It disappeared in the fog - a soupy mire of burnt piglin and magma vapor. He was very high up, he realized distantly. The seas seemed miles away from him. Slipping would be an instant death sentence. If he didn’t die from burning in the lava itself, that fall would be more than enough to kill him. Even if he managed to miss the bubbling pits of magma, landing on the thin stone bridge cutting through the pool would snap his spine in two.

Wait.

The bridge?

George whooped in elation, almost losing his grip. A bridge! A manmade structure! A landmark! He scrambled down off the spire of netherrack, breathing a sigh of relief to have less crumbly ground under his feet. Okay. Where would this bridge lead him? This entire area was completely unfamiliar to him, but maybe that would change once he reached the bridge’s level. He got his pickaxe ready - you never know where the netherrack might get too thin to support your weight. Situations like this were the rare ones where it was a good idea to follow the swarms of pigmen. They were shockingly adept at setting foot on thin spots. If you sat somewhere, after about ten minutes, you were almost guaranteed to spot a pigman tumble through a hole in the Nether’s endless honeycomb. Wherever large groups of pigmen were was guaranteed to be safe, by the sheer virtue of the fact that it was where none of them had fallen through. George tiptoed at the edge of the crowd, cautiously making his way lower and lower. He could count on two hands the number of times he had almost fallen through the netherrack shelves even while following pigmen - too many times for comfort. He stuck to the walls too, just to be safe.

Finally at sea level, he could confirm that he had no idea where he was. Luckily, the bridge terminated where he stood. All he had to do was walk to the other end. And not fall off. The path was unsettlingly narrow at points, with large chunks missing scabbed over like they had sluiced off long ago enough for the ebbing lava to both build up and pull away stone. George wondered if it had been abandoned. The magma smelled terrible at this level. It was an accumulation of centuries worth of incinerated creatures, and was a limitless molten pool of whatever netherrack really was besides. It would make sense if nobody wanted to use this as a regular path after they built it - there was a reason most of their own bridges were constructed well above the lava.

Fortunately, nothing awful happened on the walk. Unfortunately, George didn’t recognize anything on the other side of the bridge, either. It was _another_ completely foreign area - a mushroom forest, replete with the sound-cancelling caps of the massive warped fungus native to the biome. George pulled his shirt up over his nose. Again, he was a little paranoid about the Nether - there was no evidence that the fungus’ spores were detrimental, but he still didn’t want any of it in his lungs. He didn’t think that was so outlandish. He poked around, leaning around the mammoth stalks of the mushrooms to get a better look at his surroundings. The awful sounds of the Nether - the howling of ghasts, the incessant chatter of pigmen - were completely deadened as he got deeper in. The quiet was almost oppressive, with little sound other than his own breathing. Suffocating. He held his breath curiously. What was complete silence like? But it wasn't complete silence. Now that his head wasn't so full of his own breath, he could hear a soft wooshing, like wind through reeds - but there's nothing like that in the Nether. Was that a portal? He couldn’t help his grin. Maybe he could make it out of here yet. He followed the noises, navigating around fleshy stalks and shifting mycelium, breathing another sigh of relief when he found the craggy pile of obsidian. The nonsensical architecture of natural frames usually made him sick to look at - not to mention the swirling surface of the portal itself - but now? It was the sweetest sight he’d seen all day. He hopped into the pool of light with almost childlike delight, and found himself relishing the gut-wrenching feeling it gave him. He'd almost thought he was doomed to spend the rest of his life wandering around the Nether, even if he knew his friends would retrieve him eventually.

It spat him out - predictably, now - in a place he’d never been before. He stepped out of a ruined portal into a tundra, one of the hundreds scattered around the area. Those things were probably the source of all the fucked up stuff in this place, to be honest. Nobody knew how long they’d been there - just that they were already there and broken when the first few groups arrived. This one had clearly been looted - the chest was empty, thrown open, and there were geometric chunks hacked out of the ground where solid gold had once laid. Shattered obsidian covered the ground, glittering in the cold light of the late, late afternoon. Everything was covered in a fine dusting of snow beyond the fiery glow of the few small chunks of magma that managed to find their way out of the Nether. George looked around for any trace of a recent or permanent human hand, but all he saw were a few stray pig tracks in the snow. He turned around, only to be greeted by an endless expanse of ocean. The ice only travelled solidly a few meters away from shore. He watched a chunk be broken off by the gray, churning waves - the sea never sat still enough to acquire an ice sheet here, it seemed. He turned back to the animal tracks. They were the only lead he had, and seemed fairly purposeful. Maybe it was a free-roaming farm animal - people had those, right? He’d read Little House in the Big Woods once. Hopefully it had a home - and hopefully, that home had a person with directions. Or at least a map. Tommy would understand if he had gotten lost, right? He was glad he decided to leave Dream’s farm earlier than he had to - if he had waited another hour, he would be well into sundown by now. He readjusted his knife, and set off following the pig's prints.

This pig had what seemed like tunnel vision. Its tracks never wavered once. George made the time pass by imagining what a _pig_ would be so eager to get back to. A pig wife and kids? Maybe it had a casserole in the oven. It had a train to catch - actually, maybe it just was cold, George thought with a shiver. He _really_ wished he packed better - although, how would he have known he would end up in the desert and the tundra in the same day? He shook off the thoughts like snow as he reached the crest of a hill and saw light at the bottom. Hallelujah! His hunch was right - this pig had a house, and the house had an occupant! He pumped a fist in the air, and then focused all his efforts on making his way down the hill without getting caught on the underbrush and tumbling down. He’d hate to embarrass himself. Grabbing onto branches like lifelines, he slowly (and loudly) made his way down the side of the hill, trotting the last few feet to flat ground.

It really was a nice house he had stumbled onto. Two stories tall, with a small stable stuck to the side. There was a door on the ground level, but the well-lit stairs on the outside leading upwards made him think the double doors weren’t the main entrance. He walked tentatively up the snowy steps and knocked at the door. Right before it opened, he realized that the pig tracks had taken this path up, too - and that there was no sign of a sty.

The door swung open, blasting his face with hot air. He looked up from examining the prints on the ground and was met face to face with a glowering pink snout and a pair of menacing tusks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the bait and switch there (not really hehe). do you know how excited i am to add a new character tag? especially this character tag? little lighter in this chapter and the next, but itll pick up again after! that next chapll be in a few days bc its done and im impatient :) 
> 
> also tysm for the comments on the last chapter!! almost overwhelmed with the attention im legit very thankful :) yallre too much!! (dont stop commenting (threat))
> 
> (and also happy new year! new year for me anyways hehe central time zone ftw)
> 
> (also also added those song quotes in the beginning notes! maybe a little pretentious in a few cases butttt i think theyre fun so)


	10. to new friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George gets social.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wherever you are don't worry you're gonna be fine, fine, fine (everyone blooms, the front bottoms)

“Um-” George stammered, stumbling backwards. The pigman silhouetted in the doorframe raised his eyebrows and grabbed George by the collar of his shirt, pulling him inside easily.

“A traveller,” he said simply, after dropping George down on a stool in front of the fireplace. He positioned himself between George and the door.

“Um,” George repeated, glancing around the small room he found himself in. The walls were papered with what looked like old propaganda, but it was so faded he couldn’t read what it said. “Who…”

“Technoblade,” the pig said, stretching out a hoof. Hand? “Nice to make your acquaintance. How the hell did you find me?” His other hand moved his cloak aside to rest on his hip, revealing a _very_ intimidating sword, curved like the tusks jutting out from his mouth. It glimmered with what must have been a hundred levels’ worth of enchantments - they were woven so thickly that George could barely tell what the sword was made of, but he would be willing to bet it was netherite.

“I got lost in the nether, and I found a portal.” He was too stunned to move. What was a pigman doing all the way out here, with such a strong sword - and _alive_ and _talking_? “Is the ruined portal yours?” He found himself asking. Was that how he got into the overworld?

“More or less,” the pigman responded. “I could always build one closer myself, but it’s harder to find me if the portal’s a ways away. Which brings me back to my second question. _How_ the _hell_ did you find me?”

“I told you! I got lost!” George tried to defend himself, gesturing in the direction he came from.

“I don’t believe you, pal. Call me paranoid, but citizens of the L’Manburg-S.M.P. state do not just _stumble upon_ my house. Especially not after just fallin’ through _my_ portal, which, by the way, is almost a half mile away from this place.” The pig shifted on his feet, crossing his arms. The cloak fell down, hiding his sword from view. George was glad - it made him uneasy to look at.

“I don’t know what to tell you!” George laughed, more out of surprise than mirth. How did he know where he came from? He'd never seen him before in his life. “Who would want to find your house? I was lost, so I just followed the footprints. Well, hoofprints. And I’m not a citizen of _L’Manburg_!” He finished, feeling a little hurt that the pig would assume that of him.

“Governments’re all the same,” the pigman - Technoblade? Was that supposed to be his name? - said with a shrug.

“How do you know that I’m from the S.M.P, anyhow?” George asked. _And how do you know that, but not the difference between it and L’Manburg?_ he wanted to add.

“I keep tabs on things around here, alright? Plus you just have the…” he waved his hand derisively, “look. Clean cut - although you could probably use another one soon.” He crossed his arms, stroking his chin in thought. He pointed at George, who was pulling at his hair. It hadn’t gotten _that_ long. “Look, I’m willing to believe you got lost and somehow find your way here. Crazier things have happened. Like me to all those orphans, right? You seem like a terrible liar anyways. So, tell you what.” 

“What did you do to all those orphans,” George whispered. Technoblade paid him no heed. 

“ _Tell you what_ ,” he continued. “I’ll take you where you need to be. What do you have on you?”

“What?” George asked, brow furrowing. His hand dropped from his hair to rest in his lap.

“What do you have on you?” Technoblade gestured at George’s body. “You know, gear. Anythin’ of value to you?”

“Are you robbing me?” George asked incredulously. The pigman waved his concerns away dismissively.

“Not _robbin’_ you.” He laughed. “There’s nothin’ you could have that I’d want. Nah, think of this more as collateral. I take you back to L’Manburg, the S.M.P., wherever you want to be, and I take something you care about to make sure you don’t tell anyone. It’s a mutually beneficial agreement - I really don’t see how you could decline.”

“I-” George was a little insulted by the implication he didn’t have anything valuable. This didn’t seem mutually beneficial, either. 

“I’d knock you out for the journey, of course,” he continued. “And your item, whatever it is, ‘ll be safe with me.” He walked past George to the back wall, rapping his hooves on the ender chest mounted above a workbench. “Unless, of course, you rat me out. I’d give it back. Eventually.” He turned and leaned against the wall.

“You couldn’t just give me directions, or something?” George asked with chagrin. He glanced at the now-unblocked door - but no, he couldn’t leave yet. He’d freeze to death before he found his way home. “I mean, why would I tell anyone where some random pigman lived? Who’d want to know?”

“Hey, I hear that contraction. Pig - man.” He emphasized the space, rolling his body up to standing. He took a step closer to George, who shrank back on his chair. “I’m not like those things down there, alright? No relation. Different family trees.” He pinched the bridge of his… snout, like he was talking to a child. “And no, I could not. Listen, alright? I’m retired. I do not want anyone to find out where I live.” He leaned forward, steepling his hands. If he wasn't a pigman, what was he? “I might even _pay_ you eventually to keep it quiet.” He raised his eyebrows, tilting his head to the side and flattening his hands. He frowned. “Not now. I could just kill you now.” George stilled. He supposed there were more pressing concerns than what kind of pig-thing he was.

“But you won’t, right?” Could he kill? Had he killed? He tried to smile in a way that would make him look harmless, crossing his ankles demurely. Demure and endearing, that’s George. 

“Well, we’ll see about that!” He said cheerfully, straightening up and clapping his hands. “Do you need to get somewhere fast?”

“Uh, yeah, actually.” George said. He was very uncomfortable. At least it seemed like they were getting somewhere, now. Truthfully, George would give up his firstborn child if it meant getting back to the S.M.P. alive.

“Alright, alright. Then empty your pockets already. And show me whatever’s floatin’ around in your ender chest, too.” He flicked the ender chest open, sending out a spray of void particles when the lid slammed shut. George grimaced and stood up, turning out the pockets of his jeans. Empty. “Sheesh, only a knife? Do you have anythin' at all, or are you just one of those wanderin' bum types?”

“Hey, I have things!” He exclaimed, crossing his arms defensively. “I have a house!” That was quite an achievement for him!

“Haha, you sound like someone else I know. Okay, prove your stuff to me.” He tapped his hooves against the ender chest again. Shit. If George hadn’t had pride, he could have just pretended he was broke and gotten off scot-free. Muttering, he turned to open the ender chest. The eye twitched around before making contact with him, which always made him feel a little sick. It blinked once, fluttering shut an obsidian lid like a doll’s eye, and yawned open obediently, breathing voidfog across the hardwood floor. He scanned the contents for something he would be okay with losing. The nametag? He reached for it, placed on top for easy access, but before he could grab it, Technoblade reached a hand in from behind and yanked out the Nether star he kept carefully buried at the bottom of his chest.

“Hey!” George complained. That was stupid valuable, and the pig was totally manhandling it. 

“Ahh, a Nether star!” He proclaimed, holding it up to the light to admire the iridescent shimmer. At least he knew what it _was_. “A dime a dozen for _me_ , of course, but this looks like you care about it. That’s perfect.” A _dime a dozen_? Who the hell was this guy? He seemed to notice the look of surprise on George’s face. “Oh, that’s gonna eat at you, won’t it,” he said, slipping the star into his pocket and meandering back towards the door. George fought back a whimper as he watched it disappear, possibly forever. The pig’s eyes narrowed, and he tapped the side of his head annoyedly, whispering under his breath. “ _No,_ I’m not going to tell him. Shut it.” His vision refocused on George, who had a quizzical expression on his face. What was that about? “Don’t ask,” he said tiredly, rolling his eyes. He stepped back, scanning George up and down. He seemed distant. What could he be thinking about now? Technoblade nodded to himself quietly, still looking at George. He muttered, “Yeah, that would probably work.” He finally addressed George. “Stay put.” He slid down the ladder at the side of the entrance, and after that weird little ordeal, George was alone. Left to his own devices, he decided to look around the first floor of his house.

The first thing his eyes landed on, which he had honestly been trying to ignore, was the runty enderman leashed to the wall. A tag hanging around its neck proclaimed it as “Edward”. It was asleep, curled up like a dog. It was breathing softly, and twitching gently in its sleep. It looked more _like_ a dog than a true enderman, to be honest. Maybe it was a mutt. Deciding it wouldn’t pose any immediate threat, George moved on. There was a practical pile of brewing stations in the corner by the door - it reminded him of Wilbur’s sewer, to be honest. They were much less dusty than Wilbur’s, however, and showed clear signs of use. It was always interesting seeing how people constructed their brewing stands - it was probably just superstition, but many believed potions were more, well, potent, if you made the station yourself, and even moreso if you put a bit of yourself in it. Technoblade’s were chunky, with a stout blaze rod making up the center support. The lattice attaching it to the bottle stands was delicate, beautifully worked - not something George would have expected from the hulking beast rooting around the floor below him. 

He turned his gaze to the fireplace in the corner. Above the mantle, a sword was mounted on two simple iron hooks. It was small - small for Technoblade, anyway. The blade was chipped, and George could see what looked like dried blood gathered in the divots. If he hadn't bothered cleaning it, that had to mean it meant something. George had only known the pig for a few minutes, but he didn't seem like the type to half-ass things. It seemed more like a trophy than a cherished weapon. It reminded him of something Dream would carry - it was more like a large knife than a sword, with a drop-point tip and a hole in the pommel for a lanyard. George imagined Dream slashing it back and forth through the air in the elegantly brutal way he tested all the new weapons he picked up. He considered lifting it off the wall and taking it back to Dream. He’d probably like it. A rattle towards the door startled him, and he turned around to see Technoblade emerging from the bottom floor, a bundle under his arm. He was snapped out of his reverie - why the hell was he considering stealing from this behemoth? He would be on the ground in seconds - probably in pieces, he shuddered. Right as he was thinking this, he saw Technoblade struggling at the mouth of the ladder for a moment before relenting and placing whatever he had on the floor so he could awkwardly hoist himself up. Well, he was _strong_ enough to hack George into pieces, at least.

“Did Edward bother you? Sorry about him,” he grunted, sorting through what he had pulled from the basement. Edward was still sleeping soundly. Technoblade tossed a heavy cloak from the pile at his feet to George, who caught it with a stumble. He held it out in front of him to inspect. The fur and the hem were tattered, but it was still solid - it had seen some use, but still had a long life ahead of it. It would probably be massive on him. “Keep it if you like. Actually, no, I’ll need that back - no evidence!” He proclaimed a little awkwardly, like he was spitting every thought out as it came to him. He was acting sort of friendly now. George peeked past the cloak under the guise of inspecting it further. He could see Technoblade puttering around the room, slipping little vials of things into his pockets without much thought to what they contained. His hands tapped lightly on his sides before he made his next moves, and his hands fiddled with the catches on his chests, unlocking them and relocking them several times in a row.

“Are you nervous?” George asked before he could help himself. He slung the cloak over his shoulder, waiting for a reaction.

“Uh.” Technoblade turned to George, bottles halfway to his bag. “I haven’t had people around here in a while. I’m just never quite sure what to do, to be honest, if we aren’t fighting. You ‘n I ‘re short-term allies now. Throws a wrench into things,” he grimaced. “My teachers said I didn’t play well with others.” He smiled awkwardly, in a poor imitation of a wry grin, and turned back around. Probably to look for some other useless thing so he wouldn’t have to keep talking to him. George was struck with a thought that made the giant rummaging around in a chest in front of him domestically suddenly seem much more formidable. If he was so awkward around people… had he defeated the withers he talked about so nonchalantly _on his own_? He decided to pry. In a roundabout way, of course. His gaze turned to the mantle, falling on the sword he’d contemplated stealing for Dream.

"Where did that sword come from?" He gestured at it. It can’t have been Technoblade’s - way too small, and the blade at his waist was wickedly curved. The straight edge didn’t seem like his style at all.

"Ah, that!" Technoblade smiled proudly, showing off his tusks. "I got that off of a guy I dueled. I used to fight for money, you know. Got pretty rich that way." He stroked at the luxurious fur lining his cloak. George looked at him with surprise.

"... Did you kill people?" He guessed it made sense that he _could_ , especially after that little factoid about the Nether stars, but withers were very, very different from people. 

"Oh, of course. Tons! Not just in the duels, either." Technoblade shrugged. George paled. Was he in danger - real, actual danger - from the pig-man standing in front of him? Why had he killed people beyond simple dueling? He spoke coolly. "It's kinda unavoidable when you were doin' what I did. But - like I said, I'm retired now. No more killin' for ol' Technoblade, that's for sure." He turned to look down at George. "Well, not for sure now. 'S'long 's you don't tell anyone, it'll be for sure." He glared at him. George felt the temperature in the room drop 10 degrees. Would he die tonight? Then he laughed at George’s expense, instantly brightening the room back up. “I’m kiddin’, I’m kiddin’. I couldn’t kill you. It’d be like stomping a puppy.” George grinned nervously and nodded along. The pig had a weird sense of humor. Would he be fine, then? He resented being called a puppy, a little bit, but he didn’t want him to think he was a threat. And honestly, with just a knife, he wasn’t. 

Technoblade leaned against the mantle, sweeping the edge of his cloak away from the fire. "Nah, could never kill you. Not for morals, though. Honestly, I don't think killin' is so bad,” he mused, “especially out here - people're a lot hardier. Stick a blade in their heart and they bounce right back the next day, you know? I mean, obviously, if people don't need to die, they shouldn't. Pointless death is pointless.” His gaze grew stony. “But sometimes it's necessary. Sure, sometimes the point is money. No issues there from me,” he said. His hand laid to rest on the pommel of his sword peeking out from his cloak. He stared out the window. “Sometimes, though, whole lotta innocents gotta die for an idea." George supposed he could agree with that, conceptually, but the way Technoblade spoke made it sound like that was a dilemma he had dealt with personally. He swept by George with finality and walked towards the door, stopping with his hand on the frame. "You ever been on a horse before?" He asked brightly.

"Yes?" George said, feeling a little ill from conversational whiplash. Their entire interaction had been a rollercoaster. What kind of question was that? What innocents had died, and for what idea? And who hadn’t been on a horse? 

"Well, you haven't been on a horse like this one." He grinned. His teeth looked much sharper than they had a moment ago.

-

Technoblade took George to the stable and showed him the scariest horse he had ever seen. It was almost double his height, rippling with muscle. Its amber eyes flashed with cold intelligence. George stepped behind Technoblade, using him as a shield in case the hulking beast in front of them went berserk. Armor hung on the wall of the stable - it was encrusted with _diamonds_. Just how much money could dueling make you? He saddled the horse with a practiced hand, leaving George in full view of the horse. It glared at him. "No, I'm leaving the armor off, it's too flashy." He muttered into the horse's side, tapping a finger like he was addressing an imaginary audience. His eyebrows lifted. "Oh. Yeah." He turned to George, and placed a proud hand on the horse's flank. "This is Carl. With a C. Be polite." He said, introducing them to each other like friends at a party. George nodded.

"Hi, Carl." He said tentatively. Technoblade smiled, and turned to the horse.

"Carl, George. George, Carl.” He glanced back at George. “Say hi, Carl." Carl didn’t do anything, but Technoblade seemed satisfied. Its eyes seemed softer. "Let's get goin'. It'll be dark soon." He helped George get up, lacing his fingers to create a foothold. "Put this on," he said, handing him a blindfold once he was firmly seated. “And you’re warm enough, right?” He tugged George’s cloak further around him. George noted a touch of concern in his voice with mild bemusement. Why should he care?

“I’m fine. Not going to knock me out?” He asked, shifting on the saddle. He obliged Technoblade’s request, tying the dark strip of fabric snugly behind his head. He connected the clasps at his throat and chest, too, fitting the cloak more snugly around him.

“Ah, nah. Too much work to wait for you to wake up.” Technoblade grunted, hoisting himself up onto Carl. George scooted back to give him more room.

"I have never been on a horse like this." George confessed, groping around for a handhold. He felt unsteady so far back in a saddle, even one as large as this. He landed on Technoblade’s cloak, which he held onto like a little kid taking a piggyback ride. Was that insensitive? Technoblade laughed, urging Carl out of the stable and sending George lurching backwards before he could prepare himself.

"I like you, George. Maybe you can come back here sometime. Tell you what - when we get back to L'Manburg -"

"The S.M.P.," George interrupted, grinning. He pulled himself closer to Technoblade’s back. He didn’t want to fall off.

"The S.M.P., so sorry,” he said. Sarcasm was not absent from his voice. “When we get there, if you want, I can hook you up with some way of messagin'. We can chat. Sorry I’ve just been talkin’ at you this whole time, by the way. You seem interestin’. If you ever want to visit, just say so."

"Sure, but how would I get here?" Would he get directions, or something? Despite his terrifying nonchalance about murdering people for money and his penchant for threatening George, the pig seemed fun to hang around with. He could picture them being friends.

"I'll abduct you in the middle of the night.” Was he being serious? “Just remember to leave a note or somethin' so your friends don't come find and kill me."

"I don't think I'll ever forget to leave a note," George said, thinking about Sapnap. "Don't worry about my friends."

"No can do, but I'll take your word for it." The wind slapped George's face as they turned around the broad side of the house, leaving their shelter from the wind. "Alright, hold on. Carl is _fast_." George could hear the smile in his voice.

Carl was indeed fast. George held on for dear life - he felt like he spent more time in the air than he did solidly on the horse's back. He was a little too close to falling off the entire time for comfort. The ride seemed to last forever, and with no way to gauge the time he found himself growing more and more anxious about missing his meeting with Tommy. All he could do was wait, and hope that Carl was fast enough. After what felt like an eternity of white-knuckle gripping Techno's cloak and being slapped by what felt like pine branches, he felt the horse slow to a lurching trot. The pine needles turned into deciduous leaves. Techno reached a hand back to make sure George knew they were approaching. He was well aware, he thought, pushing his face further into Techno’s back to avoid the onslaught of oak leaves.

"We're close," he said quietly. "We part ways here. Just follow the river and you'll end up on the borders of L'Manburg in about five minutes." He helped George dismount, and took his blindfold and cloak back. George squinted in the twilight, trying to adjust. He shook himself out in the cold air. Thank god it wasn't completely dark yet. "Good luck with whatever you want to do. And - find Phil if you ever want to talk again. Give him this letter. You can read it if you want, but it probably won't mean anythin' to you." He dug a piece of folded parchment out from the depths of his cape. George tried to conceal his surprise. Philza knew Technoblade? “See ya, George. Stay safe.” He didn't get the chance to ask more questions, because just as he finished stowing the letter in his pocket, Techno was already turned around and galloping away. He watched him and Carl disappear over the crest of a hill, then turned around with apprehension to follow the river home. The water glittered prettily in the moonlight, but he couldn’t help but imagine the monsters that dwelled in its depths. The current eddied and swirled along the banks, trapping leaves and debris in its miniature whirlpools. The wind whispered through the trees. George’s head felt full from everything he’d done that day. He would be glad to be finished with it, but there was still one last thing he had to do.

He had to meet with Tommy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know originally i split this chapter and the last chapter up because it was getting too long (around 4000 words) and after all my editing and revisions its gone back up to 3800 from like 2000. im thinking of making a playlist for killer (tfb songs only)
> 
> also. technoblade :)


	11. the meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George and Tommy have a chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is for the snakes and the people they bite / for the friends i've made, for the sleepless nights / for the warning signs i've completely ignored (twin size mattress, the front bottoms)

George trudged slowly back to Tommy’s sewer. The only noises around him were the soft chirping of crickets and the occasional croak of frogs, which only got louder the closer he got to the cliffside entrance. He tugged the grate open and ducked patinated copper pipes dripping with vines near the entrance. The damp leaves shone in the moonlight. He slipped into the dark tunnel with a yawn, wrinkling his nose at the smell. It wasn’t a waste sewer (and thank god for that), but it was still chock full of old water and rotting plant matter. The dim safety lights along the sloping walls of the tunnel lit everything up with a murky green tint. The rippling water reflected it onto the ceiling in wobbling webs of swampy glow. Scummy algae coated the bricks bordering the water, making the pathways beside it treacherously slippery. George kept a hand on the wall for balance, dragging his feet along the ground. He hoped Dream wouldn't be out on one of his late-night expeditions tonight - he had told George once that he liked patrolling the weblike networks of tunnels and sewers crawling between the S.M.P. and L'Manburg when he was bored.

He could hear music echoing faintly down the long hall of the sewer. Tommy was playing one of his discs - from the sound of it, one of the less important ones. Blocks, he thought the name was. The long walls of the sewer seemed to stretch the songs out as they bounced off the blackstone, lending the notes a wavering, otherworldly quality. He rounded a final bend and came face to face with a massive rusting door. Behind it would lay Tommy. He stared at it with mild apprehension. He could still turn around here. He could leave, and everything would stay normal, just like it had always been. No suspicions, no betrayals, no conspiracies. 

But he couldn’t ignore what he had seen. Not now, not in the face of everything all piled up.

He wrenched the wheel to the side and yanked the door open.

Tommy was sitting on a chair facing him, feet up on the table and hands tucked behind his head. He was staring up at the distant ceiling and nodding his head slightly to the music, but he sprang up when George entered.

“Lock the door behind you, please,” Tommy instructed quietly. George did as he asked. The mechanism latched shut with a heavy click. Just after it did so, Tommy took a deep breath and started shouting. “Where the hell have you been?” George flinched back in surprise. “It’s _well_ past sundown!”

“Oh my god, Tommy.” He shook his head. He should have expected this. It was his fault for being late. George pulled out the chair in front of him and dropped into it. The exhaustion seemed to hit him all at once. He really would be sore tomorrow. Tommy threw his hands up in the air, eyes wide.

“Well?” He demanded. George leaned back, closing his eyes. The ramshackle wooden seat was by no means comfortable, but it was miles nicer than the bony back of a horse. His knife pushed sharply against his hip, so he unclipped it and placed it on the table in front of him. He gave himself the opportunity to settle in. “Are you ignoring me?” Tommy asked incredulously. George held a finger up.

“Shh,” he said, cracking his eyelids slightly. “Give me a minute, okay? Long day.” Through his lashes, George could see Tommy slump down in his chair in exasperation. He smiled. Even though he did genuinely need to take a moment to rest and prepare, it felt good seeing Tommy get just as irritated as he made other people. A little taste of his own medicine. He could also see Tommy’s lips moving faintly. He glowered at George, looking at him through his brows. George thought with chagrin that he was probably counting out a minute. Still, he was thankful for the break, as short as it would be. He sat there, just breathing. The sewer smelled like late fall, full of the thick smell of decaying leaves. It wasn’t as terrible as he remembered.

“...59, 60. It’s been a minute, George. Why were you late?” Tommy crossed his arms, looking at him with his head tilted. He sounded notably more serious. George sat up, slightly embarrassed. He would keep his promise, at least, and not tell anyone about the pig dwelling in the tundra far North.

“... I got lost in the Nether.” He admitted, not mentioning Techno. Tommy let out a short bark of a laugh.

“Lost in the Nether? How? There are highways and bridges fucking everywhere!”

“I don’t even know!” George laughed. Despite the reason they were meeting, the levity was welcome. “I made a new portal and took a wrong turn somewhere.” Tommy rolled his eyes.

“Whatever. At least you made it back before next fucking year, jesus christ. Do you know what time it is? I’ve been waiting here for hours! I’ve got half a mind to break this disk!” 

“Um, I don’t,” George said. He could tell they were about to veer off into a tangent, and as much as he’d like to argue over the clock, they just didn’t have the time for more than a few minutes of banter. “Look, I’ve been thinking about what you said.” He sat up, trying to rearrange himself into a more businesslike position. Tommy nodded. He reached over and turned down the music player.

“Go on,” he prompted.

“There’s no way Dream is human.” George said. Might as well get it out and over with. Tommy shook his fist understatedly in silent victory. “I’ve been thinking about all the weird stuff I’ve seen from him and just chosen to ignore. Like, it’s all these little pieces that are totally innocuous on their own, but once you add them up it’s undeniable.” George leaned forwards, putting his elbows on the table. “First it was his hands. They’re ice cold, but I just thought he might have a circulation issue, or something.”

“Anemic king,” Tommy muttered. George exhaled shortly, an almost laugh. “Were you two holding hands or something?” He asked with a sharp grin, eyebrows up.

“Um- no,” He brushed past Tommy’s question. He didn’t want to deal with Tommy’s reaction if he told the truth. “I didn’t think anything of it, not at first, but then I noticed that his skin is... green. And he’s got this massive vein running up his neck.” He traced its path onto his jaw.

“Wait, have you seen under his mask?” Tommy asked in surprise. “What does he look like?” George was quick to defer, waving his hands.

“No, not under - that little curtain thing moved just enough that I could see his jaw and a little bit of his neck once.”

“Oh. Oh, damn." Tommy sounded mildly disappointed. "You know, we’ve had a bet going for whether you’ve seen under his mask. Not anything big, but Fundy had twenty bucks and a pair of nice boots on yes.” George laughed, but what Tommy said raised questions. How long had he and his friends been plotting to recruit him?

“Okay, okay, but the green skin is weird, right? Have you heard of anyone with _green skin_?”

“Zombies have green skin,” Tommy answered.

“He’s obviously not a zombie,” George scoffed. “I mean, zombies can barely figure out how to walk around a wall. And I dunno about a million IQ, but he's definitely smarter than that.”

“Okay, I was just joking,” Tommy said, putting his hands up. “Cool your jets, big man!”

“I wasn’t even - whatever. The green skin is weird enough on its own - I mean, it got me to send that letter, right? - but…” George stopped. Here went nothing, he thought, putting his knuckles up to his lips. “I think he’s rotting?”

“He’s _rotting_?” Tommy exclaimed, jaw dropped. His hands fell out of the air and hit the table with a smack. “What the hell?”

“Today, when I was with him, his mask fell off, and I found it on the ground, and it… There was a piece of flesh on the back. Like it had been scraped off something.” George rubbed his forehead.

“Off his face,” Tommy filled in with reverie. “That’s disgusting. So he’s rotting.”

“Yeah,” George confirmed with a sigh. “He's rotting." It felt good to admit to someone other than himself - and to have that person believe him instantly.

"Ugh, and you're going to tell me you didn't try to sneak a peek? Not even a little one?" Tommy sighed. "Okay, well - anything else?" Was he expecting something more? George shifted, looking down at his hands. Tommy hadn’t been taking anything he said at all seriously. Even the news that he was rotting had been received with all the gravity of a primary schooler being told about a dead squirrel on the blacktop. He set his jaw. Maybe this would get Tommy listening.

"I was with Sapnap today," he blurted out. “And I know you don’t care about me hanging out with my friends, but he said something weird.” Tommy breathed what seemed like a sigh of relief, looking at him expectantly. Not the riveted stare he had been anticipating. "He told me about his friend Clay. That he just disappeared one day, but not normally. He thinks he was possessed, or something, that he had been acting differently in the weeks before, and that something _else_ had taken over.” George took a deep breath, lacing his fingers together. “And we were interrupted before he could finish, but I think he was going to say that Dream had something to do with it." He finished, expecting Tommy to be shocked, but he was just nodding. Like he already knew what George was telling him about.

"Good," he said. What? "I'm glad Sapnap got to you." _What?_ George straightened up.

"What do you mean, 'got to me'? Are you guys working together, or something?"

"George, you are a deductive genius," Tommy said dryly. "Yeah, we're working together, with a few others. You can probably guess who. He told me the same story - _just_ me, the others don't know.” He waved off George’s question before he had the chance to ask. George almost felt betrayed - he thought him and Sapnap had shared a moment, but it was just part of a ploy to get him on Tommy’s side? He shook off his shock easily, though. He trusted Sapnap enough, and he could tell that it really _had_ been hard for him to say. “But we weren't interrupted. I heard the end of the story. Do you know why I want him dead? It isn't just because he's not human. That would be fine on its own. I mean, we have Fundy. Nah, we think that whatever he is - it's completely opposed to any other kind of life around it. We're just an obstacle to whatever he wants to achieve. Sapnap was a traveler, right? There's weird shit in the wilderness around here. Not the kind of bogeys you get told about in nursery rhymes.” Tommy leaned forward on the table, glancing side to side conspiratorially. “Sapnap thinks Dream was something he had heard of when he was little. A monster, but intelligent and ambitious. He-"

Tommy suddenly stopped talking, jerking his head towards the door. He held a finger up to his mouth and slapped the needle off the record player.

"What?" George whispered urgently. "What's wrong?"

"Ssh!" He hissed. "Listen - can't you hear that?" George shut up, straining his ears for any sound. All he could hear was the faint dripping of water, but - there it was! George blanched. He waited another few moments to confirm what he thought he might have heard.

A familiar four note whistle, echoing off the sewer walls.

"It's Dream, isn't it," Tommy whispered. "Shit. We gotta get out of here." He grabbed the disc, slipping it into the backpack at his side. George nodded, extricating himself slowly from the chair so as to not make any noise. He followed Tommy to the rusting rungs on the wall. They both winced as the decrepit metal cried out noisily from Tommy's weight. There was no way to make that quiet. " _Shit,_ " he cursed again. "Okay. He'll probably know people were here, and he can probably figure out one of them was me, but with any luck he won't know the other one was you. We just gotta be fast." George watched Tommy scramble up the ladder, all attempts at stealth completely abandoned. He could hear noise now from beyond the door - Dream was getting closer, and fast.

He placed both hands on the rungs, and started going up two at a time. The rusting metal flaked off in his hands. He pounded up the ladder, almost jumping from one to the next. He only had a few more meters to go. Then - the rung he stepped on snapped in two, sending him slamming into the wall. One punched him in the gut, knocking the air out of his chest. All he could do for a moment was hang in the air and wait until he could breathe again. Tommy looked down at him from above, eyes wide. He gestured for George to hurry up frantically, face drawn in panic. The whistling was getting louder. George flexed his arms uselessly, straining his chest to try and force himself to breathe again. He was getting lightheaded. He kicked against the wall, sending himself thumping again onto the rung to make his diaphragm remember its job. It worked, and with a deep, shuddering gasp, he threw himself back up the ladder. Tommy reached down and grabbed his arms to help pull him up the last meter. He scrambled through the trap door opening, clawing at the smooth tile floor.

Once up, George collapsed on the ground, coughing. Tommy slammed the trap door shut behind him, shoving a chest on top of it for good measure. "Holy shit," George croaked, rolling onto his back.

"Come on," Tommy urged, pulling on his arm. "We don't have time - we gotta get as far away from here as possible. Get up - get _up_ , bitch -" he said with frustration.

"Tommy," George complained. He let himself be pulled up shakily, dusting himself off. He still felt short of breath.

"... Sorry." He muttered. "We _do_ have to go, though," he said, jogging to open the door of his house. George followed him.

"We should probably split up, yeah?" He coughed. Tommy nodded tersely, shouldering his bag.

"See ya, George. Good luck." With that, he turned and ran down the path, casting a long shadow in the moonlight. George watched him go for a moment before turning to run home himself. He put a hand down to his knife to silence it, only to meet empty air. He stopped in the shadow of a tree, stepping off the path and up against it to conceal himself from view. Only then did he allow himself to pat his sides down nervously - where was his knife? It wasn't on his other side, he hadn't jammed it in a pocket... Had he dropped it? Then he realized. His blood ran cold.

It was still on Tommy's table. Down in the sewer. Where Dream was.

If Dream found out George had been working with Tommy...

It was okay, George, he tried to comfort himself. He smoothed down his pants with anxiety. It would be fine. Tommy had him lock the door when he came in, and he'd also blocked the entrance up top. He would probably be back the next day to see if he had missed anything, too. He rubbed his hands up and down his arms. It wasn't like he could do anything about it now. Going back would be more dangerous than just leaving the knife and praying. He glanced around the tree to make sure nobody was nearby. Shaking his head, he set off again down the path. His legs felt wobbly. His heart pounded. His chest hurt. God, he had been through a lot today. He took a roundabout route home, trying to avoid as many sewer and tunnel entrances as he could.

He waded through his river one last time, exhausted. He barely managed to get his wet boots off before flopping into bed facedown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sleep well george!
> 
> here's the [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2lGb0PeEZqx3CHQw3IY9uT?si=D_zJzg0fQruJ5WDpaEVfsA)! 100% front bottoms. half of the songs might not make sense for a while lol. i'll keep adding songs as i go!


	12. hilltop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a restless night, George and Dream have a chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> awfully hot coffee pot (freestyle, eminem)
> 
> (possible manipulation warning, just to be safe!)

George woke to the soft smell of damp earth and rain oozing in through his open window. He had been sleeping soundly just moments before, but as he opened his eyes slowly in the darkness he knew immediately he wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep as easily as he’d woken up. A sedated glance through the window beside his bed revealed the moon winking down at him from its place high in the sky, nestled in among dark clouds. His eyes were half lidded but his mind, he could feel, was easing into starting position. He sat up slowly, pushing aside the covers with a soft rustle. He shifted his legs over the side of the bed and took a deep breath. He adjusted to the darkness, coming to his senses. The smell of the sewer was still on him, all leaves and mud. For a moment, he felt like he was still back there. The sound of water dripping from his eaves into moonlit puddles changed to the dew of the earth bleeding through the bricks of Tommy’s tunnels. He felt a chill wash over his body as a light breeze flew crisply into his room, carrying the scent of rain, but he did nothing to ward off the cold. His hands moved themselves into his lap, carefully avoiding the place on his hip a knife once hung from.

He sighed. He was well and truly fucked.

Dream had been in the tunnels last night. He had probably walked where George’s boots had just stepped, kicked up water from the same puddles as he wandered leisurely through the bowels of the earth. George could practically see it - Dream’s hands in his pockets, pushing up the hem of _his_ jacket, with the slight slouch he affected when he was trying to look cool and intimidating. It usually worked. At least, it worked on George. He found himself listening more when he saw it, complying faster. A hunch to Dream’s shoulders meant he was on the warpath.

Would he have been on the warpath, though? Does one _whistle_ on the way to ambush their foes? Besides, George had never known Dream to whistle when he was alone - but that only took a moment of thinking to dismiss. He could never know what Dream did on his own, because he would have to be _alone_ to do it. Still, there had been times where George had walked in on Dream focusing so hard that it took him several minutes to realize George was there. His shoulders hunched then, too, as he penned careful letters onto a sheet of paper. George had been that letter’s courier. It had been unsealed, so he peeled it open out of curiosity. It was a declaration of war, a complaint of a slight, like always, but what caught George’s eye was a sharp stroke to the side - the result of Dream’s powerful jerk when George coughed to announce his presence. He’d almost fallen out of his chair. George had never seen him so surprised. It made him feel strangely proud to know he’d affected him in such a way. 

Maybe he could take that as proof that Dream hadn’t been on the prowl, because he hadn’t been whistling then. Like that was proof that - that when he whistled, it was because he was… What, doing something harmless? Not about to catch and kill traitors?

George shook his head. This was a pointless exercise, because he had proof to the contrary.

Dream whistled on the walk to L’Manburg.

His shoulders had been forward as they stomped over the hill separating it from the S.M.P., and his hand was rested menacingly on the hilt of his sword. As they kicked aside the underbrush, Dream had gone over the plan again. Despite the aggression practically oozing from his stance, George could have sworn he was smiling under the mask. He could hear it in his voice under the dangerous tranquility it took on as they grew closer - the calm before the storm.

A whistle wasn’t a litmus test for war shit. All it signified was that Dream was nearby and not trying to be quiet. Nothing else.

George hunched forwards, putting his head in his hands. If he wasn’t going to fall asleep, if he was just going to spend all this time agonizing over a whistle, he might as well get up and do something. The rain rumbled quietly in the back of his mind. He stood up and padded out of his room barefoot, ignoring the chill that had sunk into his floorboards, and walked to the kitchen. He didn’t bother lighting any of the candles in the hall when he lit the stove to boil water. The kettle had been a gift from Sapnap. There wasn’t any kind of guard on the handle. He’d dropped it more times than he could count from forgetting to wrap a towel around his hand before picking it up off the fire, but he couldn’t bring himself to complain to his friend about it. He tied a cloth around the handle preemptively as he set it over the flames, and rifled around in his small pantry for tea. Something herbal. His gaze settled on the last of Bad’s sleeping mix. It had been a gift from him for a holiday long ago, made specifically to calm and relax. He figured he could use some of that.

Tea bags in hand, he cast a final glance across the shelves. He noticed part of a loaf of bread, leftover from trying to bake with Dream a week ago. Toast might be nice. He tugged it out from behind jars of flour and sugar, and dropped it on the counter. He’d need to slice it. His hand drifted to his side for his knife, but…

Ah, his knife. It had taken on a new image in his mind’s eye. He could see it sitting in the center of the table, bathing in a spotlight beaming down from high above. It glinted powerfully in the light - bright enough to be visible through the door. The light began to swing back and forth as something’s heavy footfalls started to shake the room. It seemed to flash as the swaying light caught each facet in the blade, a set of strobe lights calling the attention of everyone around it. You’d have to be blind to miss it if you were wandering through the sewers. It would flicker through the crack under the door, bright enough to shine through the metal, blinking like a firefly trying to draw in a mate. If he was Dream, there would be no way he couldn’t have noticed it. He saw a hand clothed in black leather reaching out from the darkness, drenched in yellow light.

The kettle started whistling. George watched the steam rise from the spout and spill out from chinks in the lid for a moment before picking it up and pouring neatly into his mug. Bad’s teabags oozed red into the water, the same dark hue of a rose. Rooibos, he thought he said. George moved a pan over the fire in preparation to toast the bread. He took a knife out of the block at the back of the counter and sliced deftly into the loaf. The crust yielded beautifully, crumbs popping off like sparks onto his cutting board. He flicked a bit of the steeping tea onto the pan to hear the sizzle, quickly buttering the bread before the pan got too hot. He laid the slices down gently, pressing down on them with the flat of his hand to get even color. He sighed, finding comfort in the ritual. The warm smell of bread filled his nose, and for a moment he could forget the lulling danger he found himself in.

He was truly playing a waiting game. There was nothing he could do until morning, nothing he could do until he could meet with Tommy again and see what had become of his knife. Dream probably heard them. If it wasn’t the clanging and creaking of racing up rusty metal, it would have been the cacophonic dramatics of George’s broken rung and the sonorous bang of Tommy slamming down the trap door. George prayed he hadn’t battered down the door. As strong as Dream was, though, he probably didn’t have the strength to shear through the two inches of solid metal that was the deadbolt. But even if he didn’t knock down the door, he could have still gotten in another way. Everyone knew about Tommy’s meeting room. It was possible that Dream stole into Tommy’s house and - and what? Would he somehow know exactly where Tommy’s trapdoor was, somehow know which chest it hid under?

George flipped the bread.

It was just as likely that Dream _didn’t_ get into the room. He had no idea George was there. He knew that Tommy and someone else had made a frantic escape, and he had the common sense to know that the room would be blocked off. If his focus was on catching Tommy in the act, he would know it was faster to leave the sewers from wherever he was and try catching up to them on foot rather than taking the time to break down a door and follow their footsteps exactly. He might have even had the sense to give up then and there, since no matter what path he took Tommy and his co-conspirator would be long gone by the time he got topside. Whatever might be inside Tommy’s meeting room was quite possibly the last thing on his mind. 

That made sense, George reasoned. 

He tried to quiet his fast-beating heart, because even after confronting it with a clear argument to the contrary, he could feel it spelling out danger, danger, danger in morse code against his lungs. Even knowing he couldn’t do anything about it, even knowing it was just as likely Dream hadn’t found him out, he couldn’t help but feel like he was drowning in the possibility that Dream knew he was conspiring with someone that had wanted to kill him since the very beginning. He tried taking a deep breath to recenter himself. The smell of warm bread had gone acrid in the air. Burnt.

George pulled the toast out of the pan, dropping it quickly on the counter. With ginger touches, he slathered it once more in butter and took his first bite, fanning his mouth as he did so. It was almost too hot to eat, but the char thankfully did little to the flavor. He put the stove out as he chewed and tossed the heel of the loaf back into the pantry. He stacked the toast in one hand and took the mug of tea in the other, not bothering to take out the tea bags. What harm would slightly stronger tea do? 

He sat down on the edge of his mattress, feet flat on the floor. He ate in silence. The bread was stale, the butter not salty enough. But the tea was nice. He left the toast on his table and cupped the warm mug with his hands, breathing in the humid air rising off the top. He could feel the warmth of the rooibos seeping into his body, like it had somehow made its way into his bloodstream. It spread from his tongue into his lungs, to the tips of his fingertips and toes. He picked his feet up off the floor, tucking them under him. He leaned against the cool glass of the window, feeling the rumble of the house push softly into his head. The rain battering the roof transmuted into a soft murmur, quieting the thoughts racing around his brain. He drained the mug and placed it on the table next to the toast with a soft clink. He brushed the crumbs off his mattress and eased himself back under the covers, turning to the side so he could look out the window. He could feel his eyelids growing heavy. The rain was so thick in the air that he could hardly see beyond the bamboo that surrounded his house, silhouetted in the darkness. They seemed to reach up as long black fingers, a pair of hands offering George up to the sky, cradled quietly in their palms. It was like he was alone in the heavens, his only company the pale face of the moon, hooded by dark storm clouds. The few stars hanging studded from the night’s blanket glittered like precious gems in the ears of the moon. It was at once comforting and chilling. He didn’t remember falling asleep.

-

 _The sky looked like you last night_ , thought George. He couldn’t say that, but it was true. It sat heavy on his tongue as he followed Dream, walking in the thick sunlight dripping from the trees. The velvety carpet of the sky was echoed in the blue-black cloaking Dream’s head, the sharp lines of the dark bamboo visible in the hanging folds of his mask’s veil and in the black leather gloves on his slender fingers. His mask, of course, was the moon. George itched to see what was on the dark side.

Dream had been sitting on his lawn when George woke up. The sight of his hooded form was like a dagger to George’s heart, but he still had to act natural. There was still a chance that Dream didn’t know he had been with Tommy. He’d gotten dressed with electricity humming through his veins. Sparks hopped from his fingers to the bucket strapped to his pack when he brushed by it to grab his boots. He hoped Dream wouldn’t notice the absence of his knife. When he’d walked outside, closing the door behind him and locking it - a memory of last night - Dream stood up, brushing off his pants. George’s hoodie hung off his body.

“Hey,” he had said simply. George nodded in return.

“Hey,” he’d replied hesitantly.

“I wanted to hang out some more today. You know, get some actual one-on-one time.” _Make up for yesterday,_ he had seemed to imply. “Plus, there’s something I need to talk to you about.” He was quiet for a moment, seeming to realize that he’d practically ambushed George outside his house again. “That is, if you’re cool with it. It’s fine if you don’t want to.”

“No, no, I’d love to.” George had said. 

And now he was here, following at Dream’s heels like a puppy and comparing him to the night sky in his head. What did Dream want from him? What did he want to say? George told himself he came with Dream only because he wanted answers, but he knew his desires were much simpler - much more emotional - than that. The sun had been up for long enough that the water soaked into the fallen leaves was evaporating, kicking up fog from the ground. It was almost suffocating. He felt like he was back in the Nether. Dream led him to a clearing at the top of a hill, completely deserted. George could see everything from up here. It was easily one of the highest points in the area. Dream sat down heavily on a log, but George kept walking, past him and to the edge of the overlook. The wind rustled through his hair, pushing away the sweat and fog on his skin. The rolling hills and soft peaks seemed to stretch on forever, getting lighter and bluer until they seemed to blend into the sky.

“So what did you want to talk about?” He asked, turning to look at Dream. The wind brushing through the trees seemed to cool his heart, tamp down the low fire of anxiety burning in his lungs. Dream beckoned for him to sit. He walked back from the edge, and sat on the log next to him.

“George, have you noticed anything odd lately?” Dream asked slowly. 

George stiffened.

“... Uh,” he said, with infinite caution. _So, so much -_ please _\- just tell me what’s going on,_ he bit back. “Why?” Dream breathed out, rubbing his neck.

“Thinking things you wouldn’t normally think, having weird urges, keeping strange hours… Nothing crazy, just little behavior stuff, I guess.” Dream elaborated, trailing off. He didn’t really answer his question.

“ _You_ wouldn’t normally...” George repeated. He thought about the knife on Technoblade’s wall, and about his impulse to look under Dream’s mask. “Strange things about _me_ ,” he realized. Dream hadn’t meant about _himself_. George hoped Dream didn’t notice the implication, but… He noticed a shift in how Dream held himself. A minute change, but George had known him long enough that he could tell he was hiding… surprise? “I guess,” he answered warily. 

The wind no longer felt refreshing. He was just cold.

“You may not have noticed, but you’ve been acting differently, George.” Had he? Was he being so obvious? He shifted on the log nervously. “You’ve been kind of unfriendly towards me recently, even though I’m pretty sure I haven’t done anything to deserve it. I’m worried. And this isn’t some kind of pity plea - I _know_ I haven’t done anything. I forgive you for it, because.... well, I mean, you’ll see why. You just haven’t been your normal self.” Dream finished. George was quiet. He wasn’t sure what to say. The clouds’ shadows had left where they sat. The sun hurt his eyes.

“George, this might… This might sound kind of insane, but stick with me, okay? Or maybe a little off-topic at first. Just trust me.” Dream turned to face George. He picked his hands up, clasping them loosely and bridging the small gap between them. George stared down at them in surprise. As silly as it felt to spell out, him and Dream were holding hands. The cool leather was no longer a shock. It was almost comforting. Being so close to Dream, even after the terrifying events of last night, even as his mind thrummed in the background with the conspicuous lightness of his belt, put his mind at ease. The chilliness just felt like _him_ now, somehow. He felt safe with him. “How can I explain this,” Dream muttered. “You know I was a traveller before I came here, right?”

“Right,” George said. He still remembered Dream stalking into their campfire late in the night and sitting down for the first time, remembered Sapnap greeting him with surprise, but also familiarity. It had confused him at the time, but after Sapnap’s story, it made sense. What was Dream getting at?

“There are… There are things out there in the wastes. Beings. The kind of beings that turn a village into a ghost town overnight.” Dream’s voice was hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he should be telling George this.

“Beings.” George repeated. He was being a little melodramatic.

“Beings,” Dream nodded with a slight laugh. “No. I… Sorry.” He waved the joke out of the air. “This is serious, George. One of the _beings_ -” there was a hint of irony in his voice, “- is a parasite. It takes root in someone, and over months - years, even, it grows. It starts out tiny. The size of a grain of rice, maybe smaller, and ends up… Huge. It takes them over, sends its tendrils into every inch of them. And when it’s strong enough, it goes fucking berserk. It gives the host superhuman strength and it uses it to kill everything around it, even people that the host knew. Friends, family, even the livestock. Nothing is safe from them once the parasite’s taken over. It can’t handle any animal other than itself being alive. Once it’s done massacring everything, it takes root in an area and infects the earth itself.” Dream looked to the side. “They’re true forces of nature. Immensely powerful. There’s no way to stop one from growing once it’s inside you, and they… they mess with your head. Even before it takes over entirely, it starts shaping its host’s thoughts. They’re wickedly intelligent - living in someone’s head would tell you how to act exactly like them, right? I’ve heard stories from other travellers I ran into about parasites pretending to be their hosts for months, even _years_ , before they attack.”

“Oh. Um, freaky,” said George. “What does this have to do with me?” The knowledge was unsettling, but it wasn’t like they had a parasite in their midst.

Right?

George shifted in his seat again. He felt an itch in his chest. Fear crept over him.

“Ahah, uh, yeah.” Dream squeezed his hand quickly, a weak attempt at comforting him. Or preparing him. A cloud moved over the sun, drenching them both in darkness. “I… George, you have a parasite.”

“I… I what?” George couldn’t believe what he heard. Dream’s face fell away from his vision. He felt like his mind had been stretched out like a rubber band and snapped back. “I what?” He repeated blankly. He had one of those _things_ in him? His breaths started coming faster. Dream gripped his hands tighter, leaning forwards. George fell into him, tugging his hand out and putting it up to brace himself. He landed on Dream’s chest, gripping his hoodie - gripping _his_ hoodie, the one he gave him, he was still wearing it from yesterday - “I _what_?” He panted into his chest. Dream squeezed the hand he still held rhythmically, giving George something to focus on. God, it was like he could _feel_ it in him, this horrible writhing, sinking feeling in the core of his chest. Why was he reacting so strongly to this? He forced himself to take a deep breath through his nose. He felt gentle pressure on the top of his head - Dream resting his chin on his hair. He made himself sync his breathing with Dream’s hands on his - one squeeze, in, another squeeze, out. In, out, in, out. Breathe, George. Was that - was that what he was going to do? Was he destined to kill everyone?

“You have a parasite,” Dream said again softly. George felt enveloped by his voice. Even though it was terrifying knowledge, the way Dream said it calmed him.

“How do you know?” He asked. Quietly, almost desperately, he added, “What is it going to do to me? How long until I...” He pressed his forehead into Dream’s chest. Dream settled a hand on his back. George turned his head to listen to Dream’s heartbeat, but...

Dream rubbed his other hand, now free, on his neck again. “Because I’ve seen it before. I was in a group where someone was infected. I watched it take root, I watched him just… disappear.” He took a breath. George heard it rustle dryly through his chest, but nothing else. “There were signs before he went off. He withdrew more, got a little snappier and standoffish. One of the other people we were traveling with - he was a veteran of the wastes, he’d seen it happen before, but we only figured it out when it was too late. He killed two, almost killed a third - his best fucking friend - before we took him down.” George pulled back, keeping his arms close to his chest. Dream’s hands fell into his lap. His voice grew almost reverent. “I was the one that did it. I killed him.” George snuck a nervous glance at the sword resting on Dream’s hip. “Sunk my knife into his chest, and it cleaved right through, like cutting a mushroom - like it had eaten away his bones, replaced his ribs with itself.”

“Dream…” George started. Dream seemed to shake himself out of the memory. He looked at George, but started speaking again before he could.

“For your other questions… I’m not sure. Yours is still young. It doesn’t have much hold on you. You could have anywhere from a month to years before you would even notice it talking to you, or changing your thoughts at all.”

“Dream,” George said again, more insistently. “Where’s your heartbeat?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha
> 
> (started an smp sideblog with a friend, my epic beta + creative consult (too cheesy?) yellow! we're @minecraftsz on tumblr, come say hi :)!)


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tws: suicidal ideation, possible manipulation

George saw Dream stiffen, like his veins turned to ice before his eyes. A breeze passed between them, ruffling the edge of Dream’s hood. It was the only part of him that moved.

“You’re not human, are you, Dream.” George said. It wasn’t a question. “Are… what are you?” George took Dream’s hand, tugged off his glove, revealed skin as cool and smooth as marble. Dream didn’t react, moving limply. He said nothing. George’s voice was hesitant and halting, but he had to get this out before he started second guessing himself again. “You’re not warm, like a person would be. Your-” George reached up to push at the veil swinging from the mask, but Dream’s hand snapped up mechanically, gripping his wrist like steel. George flinched automatically. He’d never seen Dream act like this before. His heart sank. He felt like he was finally seeing behind the mask, even as his face stayed hidden. Was this him - the _real_ him? Moving like a machine, reacting to nothing? Had all his affection for George just been for show?

But the moment he pulled his hand back toward him in reflex, Dream released him almost gently. His hand twitched with remorse as it fell back down into his lap, and his head jerked down for a moment like he was about to turn away bashfully before remembering itself and moving back to where it had been. The motions seemed genuine, instinctive, full of care and warmth like his concern for him was still very, very, real. The way he restrained himself seemed like he had forgotten he was supposed to be stoic and only realized halfway through comforting George. Then the rock-solid stillness, the robotic apathy - was that the act?

“...Your skin is green under the mask,” George slowly finished what he was going to say. Daringly, George reached his hand back up towards Dream’s mask. This time, he didn’t move. George knew he wouldn’t, knew he’d regained control - knew that he’d softened enough to let George touch him, but had locked himself down enough to stay nonreactive. He allowed George to make contact with the smooth, cold surface, let him caress it like it was his cheek. “Not just green,” George whispered. He could feel Dream lean ever so slightly into his palm. “Rotting.”

Dream squeezed his hand.

“Rotting,” he repeated quietly. “Zombies rot.” George’s hand slid from the mask, dropping into the space between them.

“A zombie,” he whispered. Finally, an answer. It was straightforward - hearing something not soaked in preludes and stories and implications was almost refreshing. But getting the answer he’d been waiting for for so long didn’t make him feel any better - if anything, what he heard dug a deeper pit in the anxious hole of his heart. “How can you be a zombie?”

“Weird things out in the wastes, George. I’m one of them. Someone,” he jerked his head up, “fucked up when they made me.”

“You’re a zombie,” George said again. He regretted saying it the instant the words spilled out of his mouth. God, he’d tried to get the upper hand, tried to act all clever and say what he’d noticed, what Dream had failed to hide - but now he was just stupidly repeating what Dream was saying _again_. He still couldn’t stop his thoughts from racing. Zombies _kill_ people - was _this_ what Tommy meant? That Dream’s goal was to kill them all, because he was a _fucking zombie_? They’re the antithesis of life. He pushed himself back on the log unthinkingly, putting distance between them. Dream’s head snapped up towards him, and he put his hands up placatingly, almost panicky at George’s reaction. He scooted forwards as he spoke.

“Wait, wait, George. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m different from them, from the rest. You can _tell_ , George. I’m in control of myself, always have been - I’m smart, I’m self aware. I’m the me you’ve always known. That doesn’t change just because you know more about me.” His voice slowed as he noticed George stop moving, and his hands lowered, turning to face palms up. “Come on, now, did you really think I would hurt you?” Dream reached out for George. He let him cup his jaw with uncertainty. He trusted Dream. Despite everything, he trusted him. “I could never hurt you. Not in a million years, not if you stood between me and God.” Him and God. Dream touched George’s face like he was handling fine china. “I’m… I’m glad you know now. George, I’m dead. I’m safe around you. You won’t hurt me. You don’t have to be afraid.”

“I won’t hurt you,” George repeated. “The parasite won’t try to kill you?”

“No,” he confirmed, shaking his head slightly. “I’m the only thing around here it won’t want dead. I already am. We’re _safe_ around each other, George.” He kept saying that; that _he_ was safe, that _George_ was safe, but they weren’t the only people around. He was finding it hard to focus. He replayed those words in his head, and then out loud.

“The _only_ thing, the only thing - oh my god, I’m going to kill _everyone._ ” George’s voice broke. He started shaking. They were all going to die - Sapnap, Bad, Tommy, everyone in the S.M.P. and L’Manburg and the Badlands, and all their pets and their livestock, and probably even the bugs that crawl in the walls - all dead, all murdered by _him_ , because of _him_ , executed by the parasite in his fucking chest -

Dream immediately pulled him into his arms. George hadn’t even realized he’d started hyperventilating until he compared his own breathing to Dream’s. He struggled to match the slow, even pace of his breaths. Dream spoke softly into his ear.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay, it’s okay. You don’t need to worry about that, not right now.” The words were comforting, but George couldn’t help but notice that Dream didn’t say that he _wouldn’t_ kill them all. “You’re safe here. You’re safe with me.”

“ _They_ aren’t,” he said. “They’re not safe with me.” He pulled away, letting their hands linger on each other. Dream’s hands trailed down his sides. “I can’t tell them.” _I want my last months with them to be free of this. It’ll all be okay, until I start going off, and then… and then I’ll kill myself, _he thought despairingly. _Then they’d be free of me.___

__“You can’t,” Dream said eventually. What he said next surprised George. “I… I can’t always protect you, no matter how much I wish I could.”_ _

__“You think they would hurt me?” George said carefully. He hadn’t even considered that. He… He hoped they wouldn’t, but - but if you knew someone would kill you in cold blood in as soon as a few months, would you just _leave them be?_ When you find a time bomb, you defuse it immediately - you don’t wait until the second before it goes off. What might they do to him, if they found out?_ _

__“I… George, can I tell you a story?” _Another one_? George thought. He’d been listening to a lot of stories lately. He felt like he could hear the ticking in his head. Dream cocked his head, and George realized he hadn’t replied. “It’ll be short. Just trust me.”_ _

__He nodded. He prayed that this would end in a denial, but simple reassurement usually doesn’t come in the form of a story. Maybe listening would calm him down, distract him from the present._ _

__“Sapnap and I didn’t meet that first night at the campfire.”_ _

__George raised his eyebrows. He couldn’t let Dream know he’d already heard part of this story. Why was he telling him this now?_ _

__“When I met you, I’d known Sapnap from months before.” Dream sat up, tilting his head back, like he was leaning into memory. George closed his eyes, allowing himself to be lulled into the scene. “It was a cloudless night. There were vultures circling in the sky, so I went to check it out. I was just expecting a few animals I could scavenge. Imagine my surprise, when instead of a rabbit...” He seemed to consider his next words carefully. “Instead of a rabbit, I find the brutalized bodies of a man and a woman, torn to pieces. I find a kid holding a knife covered in blood a few feet away. Asleep.”_ _

__The wind felt like it cut straight through George’s clothes. The foggy humidity of the morning had long since lifted._ _

__“That kid was Sapnap. I almost thought _he_ killed them, but those wounds were way too deep. They were _extreme_ \- went through bone in some places. It was sick. How he slept so soundly, I have no idea. To be honest, I had no clue what to do. I buried them, right, and then I stayed the rest of the night. I kept watch. I had to, right? Like I said - there’s shit out there.” Dream took a deep breath. “If it hadn’t been for me, he might have died that night.” _ _

__The thought weighed on George. Sapnap would have known about the kinds of things that prowled the night. When he curled up to rest that night next to fresh bodies, he knew exactly what he was doing. He knew what would happen to him if he spent a night alone in the wastes, and he went ahead and stayed anyway. He’d said that he thought he might have died that night, but George didn’t take the time to think out what that actually meant until now._ _

__Dream continued. “I made breakfast, and that morning he poured his heart out to me. He probably wouldn’t want me telling you this, but… _shit_ , I think your safety is more important than his privacy. He didn’t just tell me his _feelings_ , about his parents and how much he’d miss them. He told me about this friend of his, Clay, who had gone _weird_ a few days before and left in the middle of the night. How, before that, he’d joined them from his village, which was completely massacred. Everyone dead except him. And he told me his… his suspicions. We were both travellers, right? He and I have heard the same stories. He knows about as much about the parasites as I do.” _ _

__George lifted his eyebrows._ _

__“He thinks a parasite took his friend over and killed his parents. Might have made him kill his village.”_ _

__There it was, then. What Sapnap had been hinting at. The _thing_ that took Clay over was one of the very _things_ that had set up shop in George’s body. It almost made him sick to think about, that he was harboring another one of the creatures that killed Sapnap’s parents - that he could do nothing about it but wait._ _

__“Jesus, though, the way he talked about it… He told me, ‘if I ever find the thing that killed my parents, I’m going to rip its heart out like it did theirs.’ It was brutal. He said he’d kill every last one of them - and sure, he was still young, and angry, but he really seemed genuine. You’ve seen the way he kills zombies and skeletons and stuff, right? It’s like every time he does it, he’s getting a little bit of revenge for his parents. I think he’s projected all his anger and hatred for the parasite onto everything from the wastes.”_ _

__“He always said he wanted to get out of here,” George remembered quietly. Even before all the chaos and the infighting, Sapnap seemed itchy to leave. He’d chalked it up to wanderlust left over from his time as a nomad, but he wasn’t so sure anymore. Maybe once George was gone and there wasn’t anything tying him here, he’d be free to seek safety. Find normalcy, away from the constant infighting, from the horrors of the wastes. Travel east, to where the scariest things were feral dogs, not _forces of nature_._ _

__“Right. And… George, I think it might be so ingrained in him at this point that if we tell him, he might not see sense. He’d just see you as a parasite, as one of the things that killed his parents. He might… He might get violent.”_ _

__“You think _Sapnap_ would hurt me?” George asked, a sinking feeling in his chest. He couldn’t lie and say that he didn’t see the possibility, especially after Dream’s explanation, but it was still hard to think about - that one of your best friends would attack you._ _

__“He’s not a peaceful person, George! He solves his problems with his fists - you saw what he did to everyone’s pets a few months ago. It isn’t like he hasn’t overreacted to stuff before. And…” Dream stopped, as if reconsidering what he was about to say. George was sick of letting things sit, though. He’d heard enough thoughts be cut off. He could feel something bubbling in the back of his head, a distant sense of fear and revulsion coming closer, but he beat it back. He had to make Dream see this thought through._ _

__“And?” He prompted._ _

__“... And he might blame me for it, too. I don’t want to make this about myself, but telling Sapnap about you might also put _me_ in danger. Remember how I said I’d seen it happen before? When I was in that group, we actually passed through Clay’s village just a week or so before the dude went berserk. Sapnap and I were telling stories one night a couple weeks ago, and I told him about that - like, about the infected guy, and about the places we’d gone through - and he suddenly got super closed off. He barely said anything the rest of the night, and kept looking at me like he was seeing something I couldn’t. I feel like he suspects that that man infected Clay. I honestly think his whole revenge complex has gotten so soupy in his head that he blames _anyone_ that could have _anything_ to do with his parents’ death. He… Like I said. He might not see sense.” Dream rubbed a hand on his hood. “I think he suspects I had more to do with his friend than I did. Like, _genuinely_ suspects.” _ _

__The wind blew back around them again. George shivered. That would certainly line up with what Sapnap was about to say, back at the farm, and if he had shared his suspicions with Tommy, he could have insinuated that Dream planted Clay’s parasite _on purpose_ \- that _that_ was how his goal was to ‘kill them all’, and not only the simple fact that he was a zombie. How much of what George had been hearing been wrong? How much speculation and paranoia had he just accepted as fact? Was Tommy’s cause… wrong? Were they out to kill Dream based off one man’s ravings - was their death warrant written from lies? _ _

__Dream waved his hand in the air in front of himself. “Look, it’s fine for me. His issue with myself is tangential enough that if he _did_ get violent, I could probably talk him down and make him realize there’s not a single reason to blame me for his parents. With you, though… I mean, you’re one of what killed them.” He let the thought hang in the air, let George think through the implications. Dream might not be enough to protect George if Sapnap ever found him out. Sapnap could hurt him. Sapnap could… he could kill him. The feeling in the back of his skull returned._ _

__“It’s a weird feeling, George. For a friend to go from basically adoring you for _years_ and then in just a few months turn around completely?” Dream started out of nowhere. George turned with a quizzical look on his face. “He told me that I was his hero for that morning, but it really seemed like that carried through into when I showed up again months later. You remember Spirit, my horse? Apparently that used to be Clay’s. He rode it into camp when he was running from his village. And Sapnap gave it to me, just like that. One of the two things he had left from Clay, and he just turned it over to me.”_ _

__“Spirit’s dead now,” George said. He was realizing just how little he knew about his friends. “Do you think that might have been part of it?” His heart was pounding. He could feel it pushing at the backs of his eyes._ _

__“Weirdly enough, no. I mean, maybe, but… I loved that horse. I think he saw it. Maybe it made him feel better to have someone grieve as hard as I did for something he would see as a remnant of Clay. But it’s all different now…” George could barely hear Dream anymore over the rushing of blood in his own head. The dam was breaking - he could feel it. He got up from his seat on the log. Distantly, he thought he could hear Dream asking him something. He paid him no heed. He needed air. Fresh air._ _

__He was going to kill his friends. He was _destined_ to kill his friends - the thing inside him was powerful. Unstoppable. He would wake up one morning with no control over his body, and he would pick up the axe leaning against his doorframe, and he would…_ _

__George shuddered. He fought hard to keep the thought from finishing. He felt his feet carry him closer to the edge. He stepped on a branch in the mud, snapping it in half. The crunch made him think of breaking bone, the squelch of leaves underfoot of flesh. An axe, finding heavily its home in the back of someone’s head. He could see red oozing from dark hair. The roaring of wind accompanied the rushing of blood, harmonizing terribly and drowning out all other sounds. Like there was nothing inside or around him but the howling wind. Is this what it would feel like, when the parasite would force him into the earth? To be so terrifyingly engulfed by nature? The ground sucked at his boots, pulling him back, but he kept walking slowly forwards. He was almost to the edge._ _

__“It’s a very far drop,” he heard someone say. He realized it was him. The toes of his boots were hanging off the cliff. He watched a stone break off from where he stood and tumble down into the trees below, slamming into the rocks on its way down and snapping in half. He could see his own broken body rolling down at the bottom and being swallowed by the trees, disappearing into the forest. Would the parasite still be able to grow if he was dead? He looked up and out across the hills unfolding before him, finding new comfort in the softening blues. He felt like those mountains, like he was fading into the sky itself. No, he thought, as he watched wind whip the clouds to pieces. Not fading. He was being ripped up and tossed into the heavens by the wolves howling in his ears._ _

__Rocks carried by the flood slammed into the walls of the dam. Holes and cracks began opening and widening. All the built up fear and horror and anxiety he had stomped down from the past _year_ bubbled up all at once, crashing through the gates and rushing to the forefront of his mind._ _

__The dam broke._ _

__His vision blurred._ _

__He saw white._ _

__It seemed like he was falling._ _

__And then -_ _

__George slammed into the ground, flat on his back. The wind was knocked out of his chest. There were a few terrifying seconds where he couldn’t get himself to breathe, and then suddenly, with a hacking cough, he took a deep, gasping breath. He stared up at the sky, eyes wide. The trees climbed around him._ _

__Dream was shouting at him. George could still feel the lingering pressure of Dream’s hand on his shoulder where he’d pulled him back so hard he hit the dirt._ _

__“George! George, what the hell were you doing?”_ _

__“I just wanted some air,” he croaked. The words fell out automatically, the last thought with intent he could remember. What _was_ he doing?_ _

__“I very much fucking doubt that!” Dream actually sounded mad. George was quiet for a moment._ _

__“Would it really be so terrible if I died, Dream?”_ _

__“What? Yes, George, it would! What are you talking about?”_ _

__“No, no, listen -”_ _

__“George, I am not going to _listen_ to why you should _kill yourself!_ ”_ _

__“If I’m just going to end up killing everyone, I’d be better off dead! I’m going to ‘die’ soon anyway, right? When it takes over? I’m done for anyways!” Dream just stood there for a second before throwing his hands up in the air._ _

__“That’s like saying just because we die eventually we might as well die now! That’s fucking stupid!”_ _

__“Dream, dying of old age is different from _dying_ and then being _used_ as a _weapon_ to _kill people with!_ ”_ _

__“Why do you want to die? Why do you actually want to die?”_ _

__“I’m going to kill people, Dream! I don’t want to hurt people!”_ _

__“You’d hurt them if you fucking killed yourself, George! Did you consider that? If you died now - what am I supposed to tell them? You found out you were possessed? They’d never fucking believe me! They’d think I pushed you off and kill me, too! Killing yourself would hurt me! You commit suicide, George, and you sign my fucking death warrant, and you kick off a depressive spiral in everyone else here. You wouldn’t _save them_ \- chances are half of them would end up doomed, too.”_ _

__“How do you even know I’d die if I fell? I’ve had worse falls than that and survived!”_ _

__“You know you would die, George. You could feel it. This place knows intent, and you had _intent_.” Dream’s voice dipped coolly. “You know the rules of the wastes just as well as I do. That wouldn’t have been a fall. It would have been a suicide. You know the difference.” He pulled George up off the ground effortlessly, gripping his hands tightly like he was worried he’d run away. “Promise me you won’t kill yourself, George.” _ _

__George was silent. Dream took his shoulders and shook him. His voice wavered as he spoke._ _

__“Promise me, George! I couldn’t fucking live with myself if you left!” George nodded slowly. He wished he had his sunglasses on, because he was dangerously close to crying. He hadn’t done that in a while._ _

__“I promise, Dream.” Dream finally relaxed. He trailed down his arms to take George’s hands in his. He sat down on the ground._ _

__“Okay. Okay. Here, sit with me.” His voice was still a little shaky. George sat down mechanically. He felt like their dynamic had flipped. He felt like an empty pool, like a lake bed run dry, whereas Dream was a cup running over, spilling at every turn._ _

__“So what are we going to do?” George’s voice, like the rest of him, was wrung out._ _

__“We can’t tell anyone, not even Sapnap. Especially not Sapnap. We… We keep living like normal, and we just keep an eye on things.” His mask tilted up slightly, like he was looking George in the eye. “It’ll be okay.”_ _

__“It won’t.” George said softly. Dream took a deep breath and blew it out thickly._ _

__“It won’t,” he admitted. “But it’s going to be okay for now.” _It won’t,_ George thought again, but he kept it behind his teeth. _ _

__“It could be years before it develops, right?” George said, trying to match Dream’s optimism. It wasn’t hard. There wasn’t much to match._ _

__“Right. We might have years. So… that’s longer than any of these countries have been around. It’s practically ages.” He was trying to bring the mood back up. George nodded, but he was finding it difficult to agree. With the way things had been going recently, it was difficult imagining going a _week_ without something terrible happening, much less years. If the parasite didn’t take over, something else would happen. Maybe he’d be found out. Maybe Dream would be found out. Maybe Tommy and Sapnap would be found out. He could feel it all coming to a head. He wouldn’t be able to sleep through this one._ _

__He considered his knife. As far as he knew, it still sat on Tommy’s table in the sewer. Perhaps that was a good thing. Dream always kept his promises, sure, but George didn’t._ _

__Maybe he’d wait to ask Tommy for it back._ _

__“You still with me, George?” George’s attention snapped back to Dream. He settled noticeably as he saw George turn back to him. He realized he’d been staring off the edge again. “Just one day at a time, George. One day at a time.”_ _

__It echoed in George’s head. One day at a time._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiii hehe.
> 
> thanks for being so patient with this chapter! i wrote myself into a corner and had to get myself out, plus ive been totally slammed with schoolwork. next chapter might take about as long so i can build up a bit of a cushion and hopefully get myself out of these binds before publishing them sets them in stone, whenever they happen :)
> 
> to all the repeat commenters: i love yall sm!!! its literally so incredible seeing all your thoughts! all the theories and ideas are very fun to read it makes me feel like a good writer when yall start picking up on things... :) i dont respond to every comment because it would get repetitive but trust i reread all of them a million times!! yall r so awesome im so so happy everyones enjoying it so much!
> 
> on a more serious note, themes similar to these in tone will continue to pop up and probably worsen. i’ll keep doing warnings, but if this chapter or anything before it fucked you up at all just know that it’s likely going to get worse from here. if you feel like you dont think youll keep reading but still want to know what happened, feel free to DM me (i’m now!) or send an ask at minecraftsz on tumblr and ask for a synopsis! it might not be as detailed as everything will end up, but i have most major story beats planned already. i should be able to give you a pretty satisfying rundown! :)
> 
> again, tysm for reading! 
> 
> (ps i’m considering adding a horror tag since my beta yellow’s mentioned it - any thoughts on if it’d be appropriate? i have a terrible eye for genre lol)


	14. earthside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy pays George a visit. George pays a visit of his own - somewhere he's been before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: suicidal ideation

George lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. The sunlight fought to get through his tightly drawn blinds, but only a few weak rays managed to force their way through. Even then, they barely made it. They sliced thin lines just above and below his eyes, boxing him in. He was perfectly still. He stared at the dust floating through the air, and thought of nothing at all.

At least, he tried.

There was a swirling pool of guilt in the pit of his stomach. He hadn’t even done anything.

No, that was why he felt guilty.

 _I should get up,_ he thought. _It’s almost noon. I’m being pathetic._

He stayed down, mired in self-disgust.

He hated himself. There were no other words for it. The feeling ebbed like the tides, but it was always there now in the back of his mind. He was lazy. He was pathetic. Not only that - he was dangerous. He was going to kill all of his friends in a few months, and he couldn’t even make himself get out of bed. He couldn’t even picture himself doing what he hated himself for, which somehow made him even more disgusted with himself. By being so weak, he was just making it easier for the parasite to take him over.

The parasite. He shuddered. The sunlight flickered into his eyes, making him squint. The p-word. He tried not to even think it, but his thoughts ran on their own most of the time. It snuck in under cover of night, cloak thrown over its eyes, and descended upon him at the most mundane of times. He’d been making tea when it had last crossed his mind, and it had sent him in a spiral strong enough to leave him shaking on the floor, hands shielding his head from a nonexistent attacker.

His body had been betraying him. Surely the parasite wouldn’t be strong enough to control him physically, if he hadn’t even been hearing its thoughts, but every time his legs shook he still felt the writhing terror of something deep inside him sending its tendrils through his veins. 

It had only been a few days since that morning on the cliff, but days are long when you aren’t sleeping. He could barely remember what it was like to not feel death’s grip on his heart. Whenever he walked from his bedroom to the kitchen he’d have to lean up against the wall halfway there until he stopped quivering, and brace himself on the counter while his bread finished toasting.

The days, though long, were boring. They blended together. He wasn’t sleeping or eating regularly, but he found he didn’t quite care. As long as he was _doing it_ , did it really matter exactly when? He spent most of his time here, trapped in bed. Every so often thoughts not of his terrible fate would drift across his mind. Memories with Dream. The last night he’d spent fucking around with Sapnap. Whenever one struck he could feel himself scrambling to catch hold of it and stay inside, but they slipped through his fingers like grains of sand. Just as soon as they hit - a whiff of baking bread, the soft sound of grass just stepped on - they disappeared, leaving him feeling even emptier than before. They only came to him when he was lying down, which was why he spent so much time here.

That’s what he told himself, anyway. A positive reason for a terrible habit seemed better than the alternative. It was less awful to waste his days on a mattress chasing happy memories than living in despair, although the two tended to blend together more often than not. He had other reasons to stay in bed, anyway.

For one, the broken ceramic covering the floor of the kitchen.

It had been a day (night?) like any other. He got up, went to the kitchen, grabbed a mug, and dropped it. Butterfingers. Totally normal thing to happen. Then he went back to bed, and told himself he’d clean it when he woke up. Nothing out of the ordinary.

But he was awake now, and the fact still stood that the only other room in his house he used was covered in clay shards. Sharp clay shards. He couldn’t just walk in there, could he? Terribly dangerous. So he stayed in bed, and he tried not to think about the thing that lived in his chest, and he tried even harder not to think about what the thing would make him do. He closed his eyes. What point was there in getting up? He’d just go back to bed again. Why even try?

As he felt himself being taken by sleep, there was a pounding on the front door.

“George! George, open up!”

It was Tommy. His voice rang through the dark rooms of George’s house, barreling through the halls and arriving at his ears with a muffled shout.

“Geo-orge! Hello? It’s dangerous if people see me here, you know!”

George tried to get out of bed. He had a reason now. Despite the very real pressure to do so, he couldn’t quite make his limbs move.

“George, what the hell! Let me in!”

The pounding got louder. Was he trying to break it down? He managed to make himself sit up, hauling his legs over the edge.

“If you’re in there, back away from the front door!”

Hell. He was going to break it down. On cue, George heard the thunderous splintering of wood and the bang of his door slamming against the wall. The handle would definitely leave a dent in the plaster. He finally pushed himself unsteadily up off the mattress and walked slowly to the door, avoiding the cups scattered around the floor. He could barely hear Tommy’s voice from down the hall, muffled as it was by the thick slab of dark wood that was his door, but he got the gist of it.

“George! What the hell is this!” 

He’d found the kitchen. And the mess on the floor. George shouldered open the heavy door and shuffled down the hallway, turning the corner to see Tommy standing on the counter in his stockings and surveying the wreckage.

“Tommy.”

“George.” His head jerked up.

“Why are you standing on the table?”

“It’s so I don’t get glass in my foot, big man. You got a broom?” Couldn't he have just left his shoes on? Shaking his head, George pointed silently to the broom leaning up in the corner. It hadn’t been used since he’d made it a week or two ago, when things were still normal and his biggest concern was just keeping a clean house. Tommy nodded and hopped down, tiptoeing over to it. He began to clear up George’s mess without asking or being asked, pushing broken ceramic into a noisy pile.

“You’re cleaning,” George noted with bemusement. “Why are you cleaning?” Tommy stopped mid-sweep, leaving the tiny shards to skitter across his floor.

“You’re in a bad way, George. No offense, but,” he nodded at him, “you’re looking kind of a mess. This is what you do when a friend isn’t taking care of shit, right?” George looked down at himself, embarrassed. Sure, his clothes were rumpled, and he hadn’t shaved in a while, and his hair had been getting long, but he didn’t look _that_ bad. “Listen, George. I need to tell you something.” He took a breath as if to keep speaking, but he just kept sweeping. George waited. He still said nothing.

“... Yeah?” George prompted hesitantly.

“Yeah what? I’m busy right now, can’t you tell?” Tommy looked back up, brows lowered in exasperation. He slouched against the broom. George sighed heavily, tilting his head back and rolling his eyes dramatically. “Aww, come on, don’t do that. Hey, have you eaten today?” Tommy hooked a thumb in his pocket, pointing the handle of the broom at George like a staff. George shook his head. “Well, that’s stupid. You need to eat three meals a day. Come on, man, you’ve already missed two.” Was it already past lunchtime? George glanced at the clock. It was halfway to sundown. “Put some food on. I’ll finish this up, and then we can talk. Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, or some shit like that. Can’t think on an empty stomach.” He gestured around the kitchen, pointing at everything he told George to do. 

George nodded slowly and walked obediently to the pantry. This was surreal. It was like a brownie from a fairy tale had grown six feet and gained an attitude. He tugged out the last of the bread and some cheese, cutting them both into thin slices to put together a dry cheese sandwich. There was some mold around the edges. He just picked it off. He grimaced down at it. You could barely consider this food, but it was better than nothing. He could have grilled it, but he didn’t quite trust himself with fire. Plus, he wanted this meeting with Tommy over as soon as possible. He wanted to be back in bed. He took a bite. Dry. Tommy looked down at the sandwich with raised eyebrows, but said nothing. He swept the last of the broken cup into a corner and leaned the broom back up against the wall, dusting his hands with finality. 

“So what did you want to talk about?” George asked through a mouthful of bread and cheese. At least it tasted okay, if a bit bland. Tommy came and sat down on the opposite side of the counter from him, clasping his hands in front of himself. George went and sat across from him.

“Something bad, George. I went back down to the lair last night to see if we left anything behind."

"And?" George held his breath. Was the knife still there? Had Dream taken it?

"We did. Well, you did.” He reached behind him. George’s eyebrows perked up as Tommy shifted around and pulled out his knife, laying it on the table in front of him with a soft _clank_. He set down the sandwich to pick it up, and felt immediate relief as soon as the cool metal touched his hands. He clipped it back on to his belt, surprised at how grounding it felt to have that weight back on there. He supposed a substantial amount of it was due to the relief at not having been found out. Still, the fact was undeniable that having the knife with him made him feel a hell of a lot better. He was willing to take the risk of having a sharp object around him 24/7, if this was the sharp object in question. It was soothing to have something so familiar on him at all times. He’d missed the sense of protection it gave him.

“Thank you.” He would have said more, but he was still tired. He hoped the relief he felt shone through on his face.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m great, no problem. That wasn’t all, though.” Tommy drew his lips between his teeth, hunching his shoulders. His hands tightened. “... You’re not gonna like this one, George.”

“Just tell me, Tommy.” It couldn’t be any worse than anything he’d heard in the last week. He was still riding the high of getting his knife back, of staying undiscovered.

“When I got down there… The door was open. Dream made it in.”

George was quiet. A tiny, cynical part of him muttered, _of course_. Of course Dream made it in. What couldn't he do?

“He knows.”

Tommy leaned forwards on the counter.

“George, he _knows_. This is fucking dangerous. He’s dangerous. He knows you’ve been working with me. He might… I mean, what could he fucking do? Has he talked to you since then?”

George was struck with a sudden realization. All thoughts of Dream fled his mind - this was much more pressing. Sapnap told Tommy everything. _Actually_ everything. All of his suspicions, all the things he hadn’t gotten the chance to confess to George. Was Sapnap suspicious of George? Did he _know_ George was infected with the same thing that killed his parents, the same thing Dream said Sapnap’d sworn to stop at nothing to get revenge on? 

If he did, there was no way he hadn’t told Tommy. What Sapnap knew, he’d probably told Tommy - so _Tommy_ might suspect that George is infected. Sapnap would tell him about the existential threat these fucking parasites represented to the world, and Tommy would take it in, and they would both hate the parasites together. And if they both hated the parasites, and they suspected George of having one…

He was thinking in circles. Repeating information. Every successful go-round pounded the fact deeper into his skull:

If Sapnap thought George was infected, then he and Tommy might want him dead.

But if he didn’t, then George was completely in the clear.

But if he did…

He had to face it. He didn’t know exactly what Tommy knew, but at this point, if Tommy knew more, then George was in serious danger. He had to play this _extremely fucking safe_. He couldn’t afford to let any information slip, just in case Tommy _didn’t_ know. He didn’t want to push him in the right direction.

“Hello? George, you still with me?” Tommy was snapping his fingers in front of George’s face. He swallowed the dry chunk of sandwich and nodded.

“... No, he definitely hasn’t.” He didn’t want Tommy to ask him what they talked about. Lying was the easiest way to do it. The way he said it couldn’t have sounded more suspicious, but he hoped his obviously poor mental state would give him a bit of a pass in Tommy’s eyes. Tommy leaned back, puffing out a short breath.

“Ugh, okay. Well, just… Be on guard for that.”

George nodded. He took another bite of his sandwich. His hands were shaking again. Did Tommy know? He couldn't. He wasn't acting like it.

“You’re kinda quiet today, big man. Is everything okay?”

George shook his head, chewing slowly. Tommy shifted in the chair.

“Uh. Is there anything I can do?”

George shook his head again, swallowing thickly. He should have gotten himself a glass of water. “Helping me clean up was more than enough, Tommy. I probably would have left it like that for another week if you hadn’t shown up.” He rubbed the back of his neck. He could feel his shaky fingers twitching against his skin as he dragged his hand across his nape.

“I’ll bring you some food tomorrow. That clearly isn’t cutting it.” He nodded down at the sandwich, looking at the tiny chunks of moldy cheese George had discarded on the counter. “Don’t want you wasting away. Or getting poisoned. Hey,” he sat up straighter, “have you thought about what you’ll say to Dream? He’s gotta confront you about the knife sooner or later. Won’t be an easy convo, if you catch my drift.”

“It’s only been about a minute since I figured out I’d have to, so no, Tommy, I haven’t.” He felt the urge to take back what he said as soon as it spilled out of his mouth. That was snippy.

“Jeez, man, okay. Just trying to make conversation.”

“Wouldn’t really call asking an impossible question a conversation.” What was he doing?

“God, okay, George. If you wanna be a dick, go ahead, but I’m not gonna be around for it. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Tommy got up, and without another word, he left.

Why had George said that?

He found himself sitting in silence, slumped in his stool. The sandwich sat in front of him. The two tiny bites seemed accusatory, but he couldn’t bring himself to eat anymore. He turned his head to stare at the door Tommy left through. It gaped open, letting cool air spread across his floor. 

He told himself that what just happened was for the best. If Tommy stormed out, then there was no more chance of George letting anything slip. It was safer this way. Plus, he’d gotten his knife back. And as much as he didn't want to think about it right this second, he found out that Dream knew he’d been working with Tommy. It was good that he knew this. These were all… well, not positive things exactly, but they were good developments. This was good. It was a net gain.

So why if what had just happened was so good, why was his head beginning to spin? Why had the sinking feeling in his chest gotten worse? Why did it feel like the devil holding his heart in a vise grip was trying to tear it out through his lungs? 

He pushed himself up off the stool and staggered to the sink, where he filled a glass of water and managed to make himself take a few small sips. He stared at his reflection in the water swirling down the drain, and forced himself to admit it.

It was not a good thing that he had snapped at Tommy so much that he’d stormed out. Doing that made him feel like shit, no matter how much safer it was that he wasn't there. And the things Tommy had told him weren’t at all good, either. His fingers tapped against the glass without him telling them to. He set it down, still mostly full, on the counter with a thunk. Sagging back on the counter, he pulled his knife off his belt and began to fiddle with it, flipping it open and shut, toggling the lock. His head slumped forward. He was looking, but not seeing. His mind was occupied with the quiet _swish, click!_ of his knife opening and closing, the soft bite of the toggle against his thumb, and one main question. He tried to push it out, but it just kept swinging back.

_Swish, click._

He gave in.

_Swish, click._

Why _hadn’t_ Dream talked to him about Tommy? 

_Swish, click._

Why would he just leave that be? Why hadn’t he confronted George about him having a meeting with a sworn enemy?

_Swish, click._

It was entirely possible he just didn’t realize it was George’s knife. But as soon as the thought came to him, he dismissed it with a shake of the head. Dream was incredibly observant. He would recognize George’s knife by now, after years of being together. 

_Swish, click._

No, he knew it was George down there. He just chose to say nothing about it. In their conversation explicitly about incredibly severe issues, he didn’t think Tommy was worth bringing up. So why? 

_Swish, click._

Did he just think that Tommy wouldn’t be a threat? Was he that confident in his ability to win George over?

_Swish, click._

George still wasn’t really sure what to think. He knew Tommy and Sapnap and whoever else they were working with thought they were saving humanity, but… Dream was just a smart zombie. What kind of existential threat did he pose? 

_Swish, click._

The only threat was the one meeting Tommy at midnight in the sewers, hiding dormant in its little flesh suit. He was the greatest danger to them, not Dream.

_Swish, click._

George shivered. He felt like it started from his core, spidering out through his veins and deep into his limbs. That was a deeply unpleasant thought. He looked up and out the window over the sink, at the sun hovering low over the horizon. A gust of wind blew again through his open door. It carried the muggy smell of the leaves rotting under his eaves. It reminded him of Tommy’s sewer. As it swirled around his house and came rushing back out the door, it carried with it the musty fugue that had been boiling in his back rooms for days.

_Swish -_

He needed some air. 

_Click._

He was going to go outside, he decided. Just sitting here and thinking at himself was getting him nowhere but further in his spiral. He pushed his knife in his pocket and left in a hurry. If he turned back, walked deeper into his house to grab more stuff, he knew he wouldn’t leave. It would suck him back in and the door would slam shut on its own, locking him inside a prison of his own making.

Outside, beyond the protective copse of bamboo, the sun was bright and glaring. He halfway wished he’d remembered to grab his goggles, but it was too late to turn back now. He let his feet carry him wherever they wanted, thinking about nothing and pushing silently at the carabiner clip on his knife. The damp squelching of half-dry leaves underfoot changed seamlessly into the soft crunch of loosely packed dirt and once more a few minutes later to the warm sounds of the wooden path. 

Well, he tried to think of nothing. He had intended this as an escape, but he could already feel doubt creeping into his mind. You can’t run from your own thoughts. He could feel them catching up.

The walk was getting too easy. It let his mind wander. He stepped off the path, landing softly on the grass. He gravitated towards the base of a hill and started hiking up, feeling the cool air slice through his airways as his breathing began to come heavier. He tried to reel his thoughts in, but they had gone too far away to call back. Really, why _hadn’t_ Dream asked him about the knife? Why didn’t he think it would be worth mentioning? He pulled himself up the last few feet of a steep grade with the trunk of a tree, relishing the push of exertion through his limbs. Was he just waiting to find out more? Did he know that was their first meeting? He ducked a low branch, narrowly avoiding a twig in the eye. He really wished he’d brought those goggles. Why had Dream been whistling, anyway? It seemed silly when he first thought about it that night, but George really hadn’t ever known him to whistle when he thought he was on his own. It was purely social, like he did it just to let whoever was around him know that he was still there, just trying to focus. He jostled a bush, sending starlings flying out in an explosion of feathers. They chattered at him from the trees. He straightened up. The path was getting clearer. He slowed to a stop as he realized where he’d ended up.

The wind swept across his face, a gentle embrace dusting over his cheeks and through his hair. It carried the sweet smell of fall and pine, and the slightest hint of a straw bonfire burning somewhere below. George made his way slowly to the edge of the cliff. He almost felt like he could see a body at the bottom. The ghost of his old self, prone and broken on the rocks. It really seemed like he’d died that day. Like he should have died. He was living on borrowed time. He had been for a while. He’d been given his death sentence just a few days ago, but in truth, he’d been doomed the instant the parasite wormed its way into his body. 

Why had Dream been whistling that night in the tunnels, if he only did it to let other people know he was still present?

George sat down, dangling his legs off the edge. The answer was so obvious he hardly had to think it. Dream already knew George and Tommy were down there. It didn’t take their thunderous escape to tell him that. He thought back to that night in the tunnel, of ducking under hanging moss and straightening up into an abyss of dark algae and water.

He heard the sharp tapping of his hard rubber soles against slick stone, the soft babble of running water. The clicking of the birds in the trees harmonized with the memory of dripping water, and just like that he was back in the underground. The air smelled sweeter, the tunnel was brighter, but aside from those small quirks of memory, it was accurate. He made himself come to a stop, so that the only sound echoing through his mind was rushing water.

But that wasn’t the only sound.

Beneath the noises of the sewer was music, leaching out from under Tommy’s door. It bled into the water and was carried far past George, right up to the mouth of the tunnel. If George could hear the music through the door…

Music wasn’t the only sound that could sneak through the cracks. They’d been speaking much louder than the song had been playing.

He kicked his heel against the rock, knocking off a chunk of smooth limestone and letting it explode into dust as it struck the bottom. So Dream had heard what he and Tommy were discussing. 

He didn’t even have it in him to feel his heart drop anymore. It had come to a solid resting place in the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t imagine it leaving any time soon. The fact was that Dream _knew_ he and Tommy were in cahoots, knew Tommy suspected something of him, but never said anything about it.

Why?

Would it even matter if George figured it out?

It was deeply frustrating. George knew of and about all these awful things, but there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. He felt totally helpless, like he wasn’t in control of his own life anymore. Hell, he couldn’t even control his own body. His hands quivered endlessly in his lap. He clenched them tighter together, but that just moved the shaking further up his arms. He would try to blame it on a chill from the wind, but what was even the point in denying it to himself any further? He was a wreck. A total and complete mess. Tommy had summed it up perfectly. 

He felt as if he was looking down a crossroads, although he wasn’t quite sure what lay at each paths’ end. He wouldn’t be able to go back and change his mind once he picked one. He was stuck. Frozen with indecision, held at gunpoint by impossible choices. No matter what he did, whether he sided with Dream or with Tommy, whether he kept it a secret or spat it out for the world to know, the end would always be the same. Maybe in another life that would have been comforting. He knew many found the idea of fate soothing, swooning at the ideas of star-crossed lovers and divine oracles that lay out your future for you. He’d wanted that once. 

George had been lost many times before. Every time, he had hoped for some preexisting plan to bring him back from the edge, a benevolent God to tug him out of hardship and see him back to his feet. A story all written out, complete with a happy ending. He had a plan now, but he didn’t like what it laid out for him.

Fate is a double edged sword. Prophecies can bring luck and love and fame, all the trappings and tidings of a hero in a fairy tale. But George didn’t think he was much of a Prince Charming. His story felt much more like that of a Greek tragedy. His ending was not destined to be a happy one. Sure, he could rail against it, do everything he could to avoid his terrible, inevitable _the end_ , but that never worked out for the Greeks. Not even death was an escape for them.

That wasn’t the case for him, though. He’d been to the closest thing this world had to Hell and he could say with certainty there was no afterlife.

He looked at the ground far beneath his feet.

It would be so easy.

The escape he was looking for lay just 50 feet below.

Maybe farther. He was never good at estimating. He never predicted wanting this, for one.

He looked at the smoke rising from the trees. They might not find him for days, maybe weeks. Enough people had gone walkabout recently that they might just think he’d gotten up and left. He could be bones before they even had an inkling he was…

Gone.

Forever.

Was he willing to commit to that?

He’d gotten used to just coasting, just going along with what everyone around him was doing. The only real action he could remember taking recently was abstaining, and even then it was mostly just by oversleeping.

So really, this wouldn’t be anything new. The greatest example of abstinence you could think of.

It felt different, somehow.

Somehow.

He toed the stone, watched another rock tumble to its demise.

Of course it felt different. Death was very different from sleep.

Well, was it?

He shook his head. He was going in circles again. Procrastinating was what he did best.

This was one hell of a decision to procrastinate on.

He leaned forwards. He was more over the edge than not. The wind pushed the hair out of his face, tucked the flyaways behind his ears. It felt like a loving embrace. Like a promise. _We won’t let anything happen to you,_ the trees seemed to whisper. The sky whistled its agreement. _You’re safe here. ___

___Safe._ From the people, or from himself?_ _

__The foot of the hill seemed to pull away from him. He wasn’t safe from himself at all up here. He craned his neck upwards, letting his head loll back on his shoulders. The brightness of the sky hurt his eyes, like the entire cosmos was the sun. Slowly, gently, he lowered himself down onto his elbows, and then completely onto his back. He threw an arm over his eyes halfheartedly. It slid down until only his twitching hand lay on his forehead. His fingers were cold._ _

__He couldn’t do it._ _

__Couldn’t take matters into his own hands. He couldn’t take the only step that would protect everyone._ _

__Well, it wouldn’t protect everyone, would it? It would hurt a lot of people. It would kill someone._ _

__Not just anyone. It would kill Dream. He couldn’t kill Dream. He couldn’t let them hurt Dream. His chest tightened. He hadn’t gotten used to that feeling yet. He pushed his hand over his eyes. Light still shined between the cracks in his fingers, so he lowered his eyelids. All he saw was red._ _

__Killing himself would end up being a murder-suicide._ _

__Right? Wouldn’t… Dream had said something like that. He couldn’t really remember. The words from that day were fluid in his mind. All that stuck was the smooth feeling of Dream’s mask under his hand, the vise grip on his wrist, and the sensation of hanging just over the edge._ _

__Sweet smoke filled his nose. They must have put another bundle on the fire down below. They. His friends. Maybe some of his enemies, too. No, he had no enemies. Nobody disliked _him_ , only his friends. He hadn’t done enough to make any enemies. He’d barely done enough to make any friends._ _

__Were they his friends, though? Most of them were just… allies that had stuck around. If they thought he was a threat to them, or their way of life, or one of their stupid little countries, they wouldn’t hesitate to execute him._ _

__Sapnap. Tommy. They were his friends._ _

__He found it unsettling how uncertain he felt thinking that._ _

__Dream, of course, went without saying. Dream was the only other person he could trust in this godforsaken place. It really seemed like they had nothing but each other. If everything fell, he could count on Dream holding up the walls around them. And George would hold the roof._ _

__He had to live. He couldn’t die. He’d do it for Dream, at least, if he couldn’t think of any reasons for himself._ _

__His fingers felt wet. He pulled them away and realized they were slick with tears._ _

__He had Dream. It was okay. Him and Dream would figure it out together._ _

__One day at a time, he told himself._ _

__One day at a time._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i keep wondering why these chapters take me so much longer to pump out and then i realize its because theyve gotten double or triple the length
> 
> happy valentines day! :)

**Author's Note:**

> if you want to skip all the plot and just see what i think dream looks like it's posted on my instagram @nowdefunctt. if not i hope you enjoy! this has been very fun to write and id love to hear what you think (subtle comment plug go do it <3)


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